Imperfect
by Sita Z
Summary: After the Expanse, an accident brings tensions aboard to the surface. Friendship, ignoring TATV.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not making any money.

AN: Big thanks to Gabi and Romanse for their help and input! This is my (late) entry for I Am Fine Month; it'll take a while to get to the IAF moment, but it's in there, I promise ;).

Enjoy!

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Chapter 1

„Thanks for joining me," Archer said, smiling at the officers seated around the table. "Chef let me know that he'll be serving a full English breakfast today. I hope you're hungry."

A look of cautious anticipation appeared on Malcolm's face, and Trip fiddled with his napkin to hide his amusement. Malcolm was still uncomfortable about dining in the Captain's mess, and Trip wouldn't put it past Chef to try and reassure the Lieutenant in his own way. Very few things escaped the man's attention, and his choice of menu did seem intentional.

"I understand an English breakfast comprises several kinds of meat, as well as a specialty made of seasoned blood," T'Pol stated. Her tone came as close to "yuck" as a Vulcan could get, and Trip found himself hiding a grin for the second time that morning.

"Chef made it vegetarian for you," Jon assured her. "If you'd rather like something else, I can let him know."

Trip knew that only a year ago, T'Pol wouldn't have touched human food, let alone a sumptuous dish like an English breakfast . Now, he wasn't all that surprised when she merely inclined her head.

"I shall give it a try, Captain."

Jon smiled at her. "You'll like it, I promise. Orange juice, anyone?"

He held up the jug, and Trip nodded. "Thanks, Cap'n. Malcolm?"

"Yes, please." Malcolm passed him his glass, and Jon filled it as well.

"I could eat a horse," Trip said, handing the glass back to Malcolm. "That is, assumin' it isn't part of an English breakfast, anyway."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "As far as I'm informed, it isn't. Of course, I can't speculate about the variations served in the average American restaurant."

"Hey!" Before Trip could come up with a retort, the door opened and the steward came in, pushing a trolley. The smell of the food was delicious. Trip had missed dinner last night, and was more than ready for this.

T'Pol eyed her meal with a raised eyebrow as it was set down in front of her. Her plate lacked sausages, bacon and black pudding, and was instead piled with mushrooms and fried tomatoes.

"I understand this is a traditional morning meal in your home country?" she asked Malcolm after the steward had left.

Malcolm nodded."Yes, although it's more of a weekend tradition these days. Having a fully cooked breakfast every day would be a bit impractical."

"Not to mention bad for the waistline," Trip added, digging into his baked beans. He had pushed the black pudding to one side for the time being, planning to tackle it later... depending on his appetite.

"Doesn't seem to worry you now," Jon said, raising an eyebrow at him.

Trip paused briefly, then settled for a mere grin and reached for his orange juice.

"So..." Jon turned to T'Pol. "From what I hear, your people down in Astrometrics can't wait to launch the first probe."

"In fact, the Exobiology department should also be interested in our findings," T'Pol said. "The hydrogen level of the nebula appears to be unusually high, and Ensign Swann is convinced that there are microscopical life forms dwelling inside the gas formations."

"Really?" The Captain leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. "It's hard to imagine that anything could survive in there."

Following Jon's gaze, Trip had to agree. The nebula out there was little more than a churning mass of yellow fumes, and in Trip's private opinion, looked like the result of some very serious spatial flatulence. It wouldn't exactly be his first choice as a habitat.

He turned his attention back to his meal, half listening to T'Pol as she filled Archer in about the scientific details of their discovery. Apparently, Astrometrics and Exosciences couldn't wait to get their hands on the thing. Well, he for one didn't mind a quiet spell; after their recent run-in with Nausicaan pirates, a lot of systems needed overhauling, not to mention the overdue repairs to the hull plating. He should probably get around to upgrading the EPS grids as well. Malcolm had been complaining about the power fluctuations, and Trip suspected that there was a bug in the software the maintenance crew had overlooked somehow. He'd replace the power couplings first, just to be sure, but-

"...Commander?"

Glancing up, Trip found himself the focus of attention. Malcolm was trying not to grin, while T'Pol merely regarded him in her calm way. Jon looked impatient.

"I was asking if you could send someone over to Astrometrics. For the recalibrations?" he added, his tone implying that Trip was being rather slow on the uptake. "That is, if you're not too busy."

"Uh, sure. I mean, yes, sir. I'll send Pam over soon as I get back to Engineerin'."

"Maybe you'd better send Crewman Zhao."

Trip blinked. The Captain seemed unwilling to give him a reason why Kelly wasn't right for the job, but Trip knew better than to ask. Jon was on his case again today, as so often of late, and wasn't going to take kindly to being second-guessed by his Chief Engineer.

He nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good."

Jon turned back to his breakfast, and Trip ignored the strange look he was getting from Malcolm. When Jon got like that, it was best to humor him and let the storm blow over. His experience of late had told him that much.

The talk turned back to the nebula, and Trip made sure not to let his thoughts stray again. The Captain had a point; it was rude not to pay attention just because this was T'Pol's field of expertise and he could do little more than sit there and listen.

"Are you planning to bring some of those life forms aboard?" Malcolm asked, sounding none too enthusiastic about the idea.

"Their existence is only a theory, and a tendentious one at that," T'Pol replied. "If they do exist, taking a specimen sample might allow a more detailed study. Assuming it can be safely arranged, and the life forms do not show any signs of higher intelligence."

Trip lowered his fork. "You mean, those things could be sentient?"

"It is a possibility we have to take into account. The Vulcan science vessel _T'Lut_ recently discovered a sentient species dwelling in the outer layers of a gas giant."

"How could they tell that the life forms were sentient?" Malcolm wanted to know, just as Trip was about to ask the same thing. There were times when he found it scary, the way Malcolm tended to pick up on his thoughts.

"Our scientists observed their motion patterns and discovered that they represented a form of communication. Eventually, they succeeded in communicating with the life forms through modulated subspace signals."

"What'd they say?" Trip asked, but Jon cut in before T'Pol had a chance to reply.

"Might be an idea to take a shuttle into the nebula. A probe can only gather that much information, and it'd be interesting to see for ourselves just what is inside that thing."

Trip noticed that the Captain's musings had Malcolm on tenterhooks, and wondered if he should give the Lieutenant a silent warning not to bring up any security issues just now. Then again, it wasn't Malcolm who seemed to be rubbing Jon the wrong way these days.

He eyed the nebula again. It was an ugly thing for sure, and he could only guess what the critters inside it would look like, if they existed. And if they were sentient... well, Hoshi would have a field day trying to talk to them.

Still occupied with the possibility of someone actually living out there, Trip reached for his glass. It slipped between his fingers, and some of the juice spilled onto the table next to his plate. "Sorry." He dabbed at the yellow stain with his napkin, which resulted in getting the napkin wet and the stain even bigger.

"Leave it," Jon said mildly. "I guess Chef's crew can always tell where you've been sitting."

Trip put his serviette down, forcing a smile. He was sure that it looked fake, but Jon didn't seem to notice, continuing in that mildly amused tone.

"You know, for someone who somehow made it to Chief Engineer, you're awfully clumsy at times."

Silence fell at that, and Trip sat very still for a moment. Jon hadn't really said that, had he? He must have heard him wrong.

He hadn't, though, and he could tell just by looking at Malcolm and T'Pol. The science officer had paused in the slow and measured consumption of her meal, and Malcolm seemed downright shocked.

Jon was still grinning, trying to pretend that it was all a joke.

Slowly, Trip got up, relieved when his voice came out fairly normal. "If you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work waitin' for me. I'd... better be goin'."

"Certainly, Commander," T'Pol said, and Trip realized that she had deliberately spoken before the Captain had the chance to say anything. For some reason, this brought the hurt very close to the surface, and he quickly turned away from the table.

"I'll... I'll see you later." He left the room, not looking back. Once outside and a corridor away, he clenched his fist and hit the wall, hard.

This had gone beyond a joke a long time ago.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Love getting your reviews, thank you :)!

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Chapter 2

He'd woken in an unusually bad mood, wanting to pull the covers over his head and forget that such a thing as alarm clocks existed. Of course, a second later it had emitted its first shrill beep, like a knife in his ear. Thumping it into silence, Trip had forced himself to crawl out of bed. He felt sluggish and slow, and the face that stared at him in the bathroom mirror had "cranky" written all over it. It was one of those days, when he felt so on edge that he could hardly bear his own company, let alone anyone else's.

He'd dropped by the messhall to snag a cup of coffee; black, and no sugar. Maybe not the ideal choice of beverage, but it would keep him awake. As he downed the steaming liquid, he had promptly burned his tongue, and had left the messhall in an even darker mood than before.

Once in Engineering Trip had notified Hess that he would be working in his office today, and had retreated to his small sanctuary of unfinished paperwork and "projects". It was one of those projects he had taken out, one that he'd been saving for a rainy day. "Gray and cloudy" seemed a fitting description of his mood, so he might as well get a little tinkering done.

Ever since their visit to the unmanned repair station several years ago, Trip's thoughts had frequently returned to its incredible replicating facilities, the way it had pulled bulkheads, food, spare parts and equipment seemingly from empty air. He had a few pretty well-founded ideas about the basic workings of those replicators, and so far, the simulations he'd run had confirmed his guesses. He was still a long way from conjuring hypospanners out of thin air, but he'd reached a point where he was thinking about sharing his findings with Malcolm, asking him for a second opinion.

Trip stared at the 3-D image on his console. It seemed a long time ago that he had even considered mentioning his projects to the Captain. At some point, Jon's interest had visibly waned, and, to be fair, during those hellish months in the Expanse there had been little time for anything not immediately related to their mission. That was when the snide remarks had started, too, although Trip had hardly thought about it at the time. Nerves had been ragged and raw all over the ship, and if Trip had noticed Jon's outbursts at all, he had shrugged them off as a sign of mental and physical exhaustion. Not to mention his own emotional upheavals, the brunt of which had fallen on T'Pol and Malcolm. He'd left his marks there, too, even though neither of them would admit it.

But they'd left the Expanse behind, and if some of its demons were still lurking in dark corners of the ship, they didn't raise their heads very often. The crew, those that had stayed anyway, had done the only thing they could do – picked up where they had left off, patched up old friendships and returned to familiar routines. Trip liked to think that they'd grown stronger, although at times, "stranger" seemed to be the word he was really looking for. And maybe that was only natural. They'd seen their nightmares come alive in that isolated region of space, and that kind of thing was bound to leave scars.

The Captain had changed, too; of course he had. Trip greatly respected Jon's dedication to the mission, his willingness to make any sacrifice, and knew that their eventual success had been made possible by Archer's dogged persistence more than anything else. And if Jon had hardened out there, Trip could hardly blame him for it. The thing was, though, that the person Jonathan Archer didn't seem to have changed all that much. He kept to himself, and retreated behind formalities more than he used to, but he was still the same man, except that he seemed to hate his former best friend.

There had been a lot of snappy comebacks and sideswipes, but it was not until the Babel conference that Trip had really noticed. He wasn't even sure what had provoked Jon's off-hand comment. _"Go change your uniform before you stink up the place." _

Trip had taken it as a joke at first, trying to tease Jon about practising his Tellarite, but the Captain had merely given him a hard look in return. Trip would have shrugged it off, if not for the expression in Jon's face. There had been no laughter at all in his eyes, not even a hint of a shared joke, and his entire body language had spoken of resentment. Bewildered and hurt, Trip had left, and had seen Jon turn to T'Pol just before the door closed, a strange little grin playing around his mouth.

The incident had stayed with Trip for several days, nagging at the back of his mind until he began to wonder in all seriousness if he, well, smelled sometimes. It hadn't let him go until he had swallowed his pride, and simply asked the one person who would give him an honest answer. To his relief, Malcolm hadn't made fun of his question, and had simply told him that, not counting sweaty repair work in Jeffries tubes, he had never noticed any kind of unpleasant odor around Trip. "Except that time you had three portions of Boston baked beans," he'd added with a smirk, and Trip had grinned, deciding to write Jon's comment off as a strange attempt at humor.

But it didn't stop there and the remarks became increasingly vicious. Jon began to override Trip's orders in front of subordinates, and most of the time he didn't even offer an explanation. He had as much as told Trip that he needn't spend time on the bridge when he could "do something useful down in Engineering." When Malcolm approached the Captain about a power supplement for the armory, Archer handed him the padd back without even looking at it. "Go ahead, Lieutenant," he'd said. "If Tucker starts whining about it, just tell him to get his efficiency rates up and there won't be a problem."

Trip had been standing only a few meters away at the time. Malcolm had stiffly taken his padd back, and had come over to discuss his proposal with Trip, which for him came close to open criticism of the Captain's behavior. Trip had done his best not to let his feelings show on the surface. He could be professional, even if Jon couldn't. He wasn't the one with the problem.

Breakfast yesterday had only been the last incident in a long line of sarcastic comments and not-so-well hidden insults, but this time, Trip felt it like a verbal slap in the face. Archer knew pretty damn well how hard Trip had worked for his position, and also knew about the shit he had taken for being the Captain's best buddy. No longer so, of course. The Captain's favorite doormat, maybe, but no one could accuse him these days of taking advantage of his friendship with Archer. What friendship? The Captain had made it clear that he hated him, had done all but drawn pictures. What Trip didn't understand was why. Had he changed so much, become a person that Jon couldn't bear to have around? Sure, he wasn't the green and gung-ho lieutenant anymore, or even the newly promoted Commander who couldn'wait to dip his toes into the ocean of space exploration. There had been mistakes, lots of them, and there had been those nightmarish months after the Xindi attack, when all he had wanted was out, out and back to the way things used to be. He had changed, yes, but had he become such a horrible person? He didn't know. Maybe Jon's behavior was a warning sign. Maybe he should keep a closer eye on himself, keep to himself for a while. Maybe that would be best for all concerned.

A beep from the comm on the wall intruded into his thoughts, and if he was honest with himself, Trip wasn't unwilling to leave his private little world of brooding. He wasn't getting any work done, anyway.

He reached over to open a channel. "Tucker here."

Anna Hess' voice came from the speaker. "Sorry to disturb you, Chief, but Rostov's had a little accident. Seems the inductor shorted out on him."

Trip frowned. "You call sickbay yet?"

"Yes sir," Hess replied. "The doctor said he'll come by to have a look at it."

"Good. I'll be right there. Tucker out."

He got up and switched off his desk computer. Maybe he'd talk to Malcolm tonight over dinner, see if he had any interest in co-working on the project. On his own, he'd only drift away again. It seemed to be happening an awful lot these days.

Trip left his office, and quickly climbed the ladder to the upper level where the inductors were located.

"Chief!"

Hess called out to him, and Trip saw her crouched next to one of the inductor stations, her hand on Rostov's shoulder. The young man was leaning against the console which missed its protective paneling, nursing his right hand.

Trip crossed the distance in a few strides. "What happened? Mike, you okay?"

Rostov nodded, although his pallor and the blistering on his hand told a different story. "Yeah," he said. "I was doing a routine check when one of the circuits shorted out." He smiled unhappily. "Unfortunately, my sleeve caught on a cable when I pulled my hand back."

"I'll have a look at it when the doc's fixed ya up," Trip said, giving Mike's arm a quick squeeze. "There shouldn't be anything wrong with it, but maybe it's that bug again. Malcolm, Lieutenant Reed that is, mentioned that they've had problems in the Armory as well."

He and Hess kept the small talk going to distract Rostov, and Trip smiled inwardly, knowing that Mike was putting on a brave face not least for Anna's sake.

A few minutes later, Phlox' face appeared at the end of the ladder. "Ah, there you are," he said. "I was directed up here by Ensign Baker."

"One of the circuits shorted out on him," Hess informed the doctor as he knelt down next to his patient. "Is he going to be okay?"

Phlox opened his medkit, and took out a bio scanner. "If I may," he said to Rostov, who held out his burned hand. "Hmm..." Phlox tilted his head, studying his scanner for a second or two. "Yes."

"Yes what, doc?" Trip asked.

"I was answering Lieutenant Hess' question," Phlox smiled. "Ensign Rostov is going to be as good as new. With a little help from my osmotic eel..."

Mike's eyes widened. "Osmotic..." He checked and glanced at Anna. "Um, okay. It's not so bad, though. Maybe a burn cream or something would do?"

"Oh, the eel will be a lot more effective," Phlox said cheerfully. "Don't worry, Ensign, her eggs hatched a few days ago, so she's no longer in a territorial mood."

Mike didn't seem to find this very reassuring, but said nothing, allowing Trip and Anna to help him to his feet.

"Take care of yourself, Mike," Trip said, patting the man's shoulder. "Get some rest, y'hear me?"

Rostov nodded, following the doctor to the ladder. "Thank you, sir."

"Get better," Anna called after him, and Rostov gave her a wan smile in return.

Trip knelt down next to the open inductor. The systems inside the console were doubly secured, they shouldn't short out even if there was a sudden power surge in the main grid. If the bug was starting to affect critical systems, it might be wise to drop out of warp until they had taken care of the problem.

"Go check the intermix," he told Hess. "If there's a glitch, we'd better call the bridge that we need to hit the brake."

"Yes, sir." She was already on her way down the ladder.

Getting back to his feet, Trip went to a nearby equipment locker and slipped on a protection helmet before he returned to the inductor. It wasn't strictly necessary; the circuits in there were charred and dead, and there was no danger of them shorting out again. Still, standard procedure was standard procedure. So maybe Jon wasn't sure anymore just how he had become Chief Engineer, but it sure as hell hadn't been by ignoring safety precautions.

Trip stopped himself. He didn't want to go there now; in fact, didn't want to go there at all. He had a problem to fix.

Grabbing a hypospanner from Rostov's toolbox, he leaned into the open console again and began to disengage the adjoining relays. A low hum told him that the inductor's back-up systems were active and working, keeping the plasma flux stable. If the short-out was an isolated incident, he'd have the systems up and running in no time.

"The intermix is stable," Hess' voice carried over from the platform behind the engine.

"Thanks," he called over his shoulder. At least they wouldn't have to drop out of warp. The Captain wouldn't have been too happy, and he'd have made sure to let his Chief Engineer know.

_Stop it_. Trip shook his head, applying the hypospanner to the last relay. Maybe he should just talk to Jon, get the whole thing out of his system. The worst that could happen was another brushoff, and lately he'd been dealing with those on a daily basis.

There was a strange hiss as the relay disconnected from main power, and Trip quickly drew his hand back. Now that was wrong. The systems seemed to be powering up again, which they shouldn't be, not after he'd cut them off from main supply-

"Chief!" Anna sounded urgent. "I'm reading a power surge in the-"

But Trip had already noticed. "Switch off the main grid!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet. "Look out, it's gonna-"

Light white erupted in front of him. There was pain when the blast knocked him into and over the railing, and he screamed, his hands blindly grabbing for a hold. He was falling, and he was screaming, and in the split second before he hit the deck, he got a glimpse of what had been his right hand, and of blood drops flying.

It was the last thing he saw before darkness took him.

TBC...

Sorry for the cliffie ;)! Please let me know what you think!

... and don't forget to check out the entficathon!


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for your reviews, I love getting them! It was great to see so many of you sign up for the entficathon :)!

By the way (since I was asked a few times), this story is set after Season 4, ignoring TATV, obviously. It's quite close to canon (which I don't usually write, so I see why there was some confusion :) ).

Enjoy!

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Chapter 3

Malcolm stood, his back to the rest of the room. Sickbay was silent, and even the animals weren't rustling in their cages, as if sensing that something was going on outside their small habitats.

He traced the shelves in front of him with his eyes, the varicolored sample bottles and the neatly stacked boxes. Phlox always kept everything in order. Efficient. Competent. Yes, the doctor was that. One of the best. A more than capable physician.

Not a miracle worker.

Malcolm stared at the bottles, and suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to swipe them to the floor, watch them shatter. That was why he kept his back to the room. He didn't want anyone to see him like this.

He so wanted to break something, hurt someone. If she knew, T'Pol would tell him that he was being illogical, and very much so. What had happened wasn't anyone's fault. There were two repair teams working in the sealed-off area in Engineering, and so far, they had discovered - nothing. No faulty system, except for those who had been blown to kingdom come; no software glitch, no instability in the induction coils themselves. Theoretically, _logically_, the explosion hadn't happened at all, except that there was a scorched area the size of his quarters where the inductor console used to be. Except that Enterprise was adrift in space, her engines dead and her Chief Engineer dying.

Malcolm noticed that he'd clenched his hands into fists, and deliberately relaxed them, slowly placing both hands on the counter in front of him. Not _dying_, he told himself. _Critical_. That was the word the doctor had used. Yes, critical sounded better. Clinical, safe. Trip's condition was _critical_, and Phlox was doing all he could.

Malcolm had known even before the comm call from Engineering that something had gone very wrong. The monitors in the Armory had flickered, and several alarms had started screeching at once. Then, he'd seen on internal sensors that half of the systems in Engineering were dead, and had been on his way with a team when the call arrived. They'd reached the scene of the accident at the same time as the medical team, and Malcolm had watched Phlox's techs as they pushed pieces of debris aside, quickly ran a scanner over Trip and lifted him onto the stretcher. The engineer had worn a protection helmet, and Malcolm hadn't been able to make out Trip's face behind the cracked visor. All he'd seen was a dangling arm and a hand, broken and bent out of shape. Phlox issued a curt order, something that resulted in a frenzy of activity and shreds of a uniform shirt fluttering to the ground. Much as he wanted to, Malcolm had no time to stay with them. He directed his team to seal off the endangered area, using wide-range scanner sweeps to make sure there would be no secondary power surges. Trip's engineers were working frantically to secure critical systems, and in the general orchestrated chaos, it was only the slam of the door that alerted Malcolm to the fact that the medical team had left.

Routinely, he had checked the scene for any remaining hazards, and had noticed something on the floor, a few meters from where Trip had fallen. He had gone over and picked it up. A finger, cleanly severed behind the second knuckle.

_Critical_. Malcolm pressed his hands flat against the smooth surface of the counter. If he lost control now, swept those bottles to the floor, they'd sent him to his quarters, and he didn't want that. He wanted to be here when Phlox came out to say whatever he had to say.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jumped badly, almost knocking down the bottles with his elbow. Archer withdrew his hand, and Malcolm forced himself to relax. He'd almost hit the Captain out of a reflex, and was fairly certain that it hadn't escaped Archer's notice.

"Sorry, sir," he said, although he really wasn't.

"It's okay," Archer said, and then, after a pause, "He's going to be alright, Malcolm."

"Yes." Malcolm turned away from the Captain. He knew he was expected to offer a smile, or maybe thank the man for his attempt at comfort, but he could not even bring himself to do that.

Archer stepped away from him, and Malcolm stared at the counter again without really seeing it. He had met the Captain when he'd run after the med team with Trip's finger. Watching silently as Malcolm handed the doctor his find, Archer had said nothing, hadn't even asked Phlox for an assessment. And he had been unacceptably slow in his response to a crisis. Part of Malcolm still wanted to grab the man, slam him into a wall and demand to know where the hell he had been.

"It is fortunate that you found the Commander's finger, Lieutenant," T'Pol said quietly. "If a severed digit is reattached within six hours, there is a considerable chance of it regaining its full mobility."

It was another offer of comfort, and this one Malcolm had no trouble accepting. He nodded at T'Pol in silent acknowledgment. She'd been there in Engineering, giving calm orders and checking Trip's still body for life signs before the med team took over.

The Captain glanced from her to Malcolm, and there was something in his eyes Malcolm couldn't quite put his finger on. Hurt, maybe. If it was, then Malcolm bloody well didn't care. And if he was taking his frustration and helplessness out on Archer, well, it wasn't as if the Captain was unfamiliar with the concept. Breakfast yesterday had only been one incident among many.

There was the sound of a door opening, and Malcolm turned around. Phlox was standing there, clad in the silver protection wear he donned for operations. The front of his gown was smudged with blood. Behind him, Malcolm could see two techs covering an empty table with a large sheet.

"Doctor?" T'Pol asked when neither of her human colleagues spoke up. "What is Commander Tucker's condition?"

"He's alive," Phlox said. "He sustained multiple bone fractures when he was thrown from the upper level, as well as second-degree burns and cuts from the debris. I was able to reattach his finger," he added. "Thank you for your help, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Is Trip going to be alright?" Archer asked quietly. Malcolm noticed that he wasn't looking at the doctor.

"I'm afraid I do not know at this point, Captain. Commander Tucker has suffered extensive trauma, and if he had not worn the protection helmet, the fall would have killed him almost certainly." Phlox paused briefly. "If he survives the next twenty-four hours, I believe the Commander has a good chance of recovery."

"Can we see him?" Malcolm asked. There was something funny about his voice, he noticed, and a strange warmth in his eyes. Couldn't be tears, though. Conduct unbecoming and all that.

"Not just now, I'm afraid." Phlox leaned heavily against one of the bio beds. "Ensign Li is with the Commander, and I will return there presently, but I would like to keep the disturbances to a minimum. The Commander's condition is still not stable."

_Critical_, Malcolm thought, hating the word. But at least Trip was alive. In a subdued Vulcan way, T'Pol's eyes mirrored some of his own relief. He wasn't quite sure what he was seeing on Archer's face. The Captain did not look happy, yet for all his growing resentment, Malcolm was not willing to believe that Archer would be disappointed that Trip had survived.

Phlox pulled off his stained gown, dropping it into a receptacle next to the door, and was about to return to the ICU when Archer spoke.

"You'll let us know when he wakes up?"

Phlox studied him for a moment. "Certainly, Captain. Although I do not believe that Commander Tucker will regain consciousness any time soon. I'll notify you of any changes," he added, looking from Archer to Malcolm and T'Pol. "Commander. Lieutenant..."

He stood there for a moment, shoulders hanging, before he went back into the ICU.

Malcolm watched the door slide closed behind the doctor. He had the feeling that there was something Phlox was not letting on about. Maybe Trip's chances were even worse than he had implied. Maybe _critical_ didn't quite cover it.

Archer made a strange noise, as if clearing his throat, that drew Malcolm's attention. Perhaps the Captain was thinking along similar lines... if he even cared.

Malcolm gave himself a hard mental shake. _Don't be ridiculous. Of course he cares. No need to make him your scapegoat just because you couldn't prevent this from happening..._

"I don't understand it," Archer said. "From what I gather, Rostov hurt himself working on the inductor, right?"

"Correct," T'Pol replied. "Lieutenant Hess reported that one of the circuits malfunctioned, injuring Ensign Rostov in the process."

Archer brought his flat hand down on the biobed beside him. "Exactly! So why didn't Trip shut off the damn thing altogether? He needn't have exposed himself to a potentially dangerous situation."

It wasn't often that Malcolm Reed lost control. Every time it happened, though, there was the feeling of something snapping deep inside his mind, something invisible breaking oh so quietly in two, releasing a rage that he could not hold back.

He wasn't sure how he suddenly came to stand in front of Archer, menacing a superior officer, his _Captain_. He didn't think about it. Malcolm was so angry that he was shaking.

"With all due respect, I don't see how you're even remotely qualified to judge Commander Tucker's decision. Your treatment of him has been both unprofessional and inappropriate. Your reaction to an emergency situation was unacceptable to the point of laxity, and if I may say so, the same has been true for many of your command decisions of late. Instead of constantly degrading the Commander's work, you might want to address your own issues of incompetence, _sir_!"

"That's enough, Lieutenant!" Archer's face, pale at first, darkened with anger, and he grabbed the front of Malcolm's uniform. "You-"

"Captain," T'Pol said sharply, her tone stopping both men in what would have turned into a fistfight in a matter of seconds. Archer released Malcolm and pushed him away, his chest rising and falling heavily as he spoke.

"Consider yourself relieved from duty and confined to quarters until further notice, Lieutenant."

Malcolm drew himself to attention. Inwardly, he was still trembling, still furious. And unable to believe what he had done. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Malcolm turned and left, walking briskly until the sickbay doors had closed behind him. Once outside, he just stood there for a moment, pressing his hands against his temples. So this was how they dealt with a crisis now. Arguing, brawling like two drunken idiots in a bar, while a fellow officer lay injured and possibly dying in the next room. The brave crew of the starship Enterprise, heroes of the hour. A bunch of psychological basket cases who were barely holding it together.

Maybe they all needed to address their issues of incompetence.

Shoulders slumped, he resumed his journey down the corridor, heading for his quarters.

* * *

He'd been about to hit Reed. There was no sense in denying it, when even now he wanted to go after the man and slam him into a wall.

Jon had never seen the Lieutenant like this. The quiet, reticent officer who died a thousand deaths when he was invited to dine in the Captain's mess. Who _respectfully_ reminded Jon that he should be running a tighter ship. The man who sat on a bench in the brig and simply took everything Jon threw at him, even the comment about his father. Jon had been furious, but he'd known even then that he was crossing the line from anger to sheer cruelty. But Reed had accepted it, as he had accepted everything else. Until today, Jon wasn't sure he'd thought the man capable of such an outburst.

_Unprofessional and inappropriate._

His anger returned, and not for the first time, he spoke without thinking. "It appears to me that Lieutenant Reed's first stint in the brig didn't leave a lasting impression. Maybe he needs to spend some more time in there until he sees the light."

T'Pol's eyes came to rest on him, and Jon felt a flare of resentment at her carefully concealed... disgust? Were none of them on his side anymore?

"Captain, I would advise against having Mr. Reed confined to the brig."

"Is that right?" He hadn't meant to snap at her, but the implied censure in her tone nettled him. Reed had been grossly insubordinate, and as Captain he had a right to discipline him.

"Indeed." She spoke calmly, ignoring his irritability. "The Lieutenant was unnecessarily agitated and disrespectful, but I do not believe his accusations to be entirely unfounded."

Jon stared at her. "So you think I'm incompetent and unprofessional?"

"No, sir." She looked him straight in the eyes. "I think you've allowed your behavior to be influenced by personal resentments to a degree that is harmful to the crew."

He turned away from her. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do, Jonathan."

Her use of his first name startled him, and he glanced back at her, meeting brown eyes that regarded him thoughtfully. The disgust had never been there, he realized that now. Maybe it was what he'd wanted to see, a reflection of the feeling that seemed predominant in his mind these days.

"If this is about Trip, I don't think that's any of your business. Or Lieutenant Reed's, for that matter."

God, it hurt even to say the name. Which was why he had resorted to "Tucker" so much of late. He'd even started to think of him that way.

"You are right," T'Pol said, surprising him. "Your reasons for rejecting the Commander are none of our concern, and I would not presume to discuss them. But your obvious resentment is starting to affect the senior crew, and as such is a matter that needs to be addressed by the First Officer."

He wasn't sure he could do this; not now. Not with Trip next door, dying. "The discussion's closed, Commander."

He left, not looking back at her. He didn't want to talk to any of them, Phlox, T'Pol, Reed. _Malcolm_, he thought. There'd been a time when he'd made a point of calling his senior staff by their first names. Now, such details slipped his attention, as so many things seemed to slip by him. Quite often, he was... not really there. Drifting, out of control. Maybe Reed, Malcolm, whatever to call him, did have a point. It was why he hadn't responded to the call at first, why he'd simply stared at the comm thinking that he had to go down there, had to do something, take care of things. But it had taken him a full five minutes even to get up from his bed.

Not that it mattered now. Trip was going to die, and he wasn't even going to make himself believe otherwise. Why should he? The universe didn't give second chances, and what you lost, you lost for good.

It had taken him a long time to understand that, but, he thought, he was finally beginning to get the idea.

TBC...

Please hit the button and let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for your reviews! By the way, although it may look that way now, this isn't Evil!Archer. We'll get to his side of things in time.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 4

His quarters had no portholes. He'd never really thought about it until now. To him, his lodgings had always been just that; a place to spend the night, where he kept his few personal belongings and where he could be on his own for a while. He'd never felt the need to make the place "homey" like many of his crewmates did, decorating the walls or adding those "personal touches" that seemed to be so important.

There were a few photos that Trip had pinned to the notice board behind his desk: the two of them in a park on Risa; Hoshi and Travis on Jupiter Station; himself at a table in the messhall on Christmas Eve. Unlike the rest of the celebrating crowd, he was in uniform, and smiling, unaware of the mistletoe a disembodied hand dangled over his head. The picture belonged to a series of snapshots, and on the next photo he rather resembled a rabbit in the headlights, receiving sloppy kisses on both cheeks from Hoshi and Travis, and an even sloppier kiss on top of his head from Porthos. Liz Cutler had been standing behind him, first holding up the mistletoe and then Porthos, who seemed inclined to kiss anything if there was a piece of cheese in its close vicinity. He'd smelled of Gouda and dog slobber all night, and Trip had collapsed laughing every time he'd thumbed through the pictures on his camcorder. And although he had feigned outrage when Trip arrived with the print-outs, Malcolm had left them on his notice board. He'd even sent copies to Maddie, secretly pleased when she teased him mercilessly in her answering letter.

That had been before the Expanse, of course. Sometimes, sitting at his desk, he had stared at the pictures wondering who those people were, their smiles frozen into stillness. After a while, he had stopped looking at them altogether, mostly because he could hardly keep his eyes open when he finally stumbled into his cabin after another double or triple shift. Once or twice, they had caught his attention, and he remembered feeling vaguely annoyed on those occasions. As if the people on the pictures were to blame, although he wasn't sure what they had done to deserve his disapproval.

No windows. It was probably strange in and of itself that it had taken him years to notice, as strange as his indifference to personalized décor. In fact, if not for Trip and Hoshi the walls of his cabin would still be as bare as on his first day on Enterprise. Trip had pinned the photos to his board and one to the wall over his bed, and Hoshi had given him a rotatable sand picture for his birthday. "It's almost like looking at an alien landscape," she'd said at the time. Only now did it occur to him that she might have chosen this particular gift because he couldn't see the stars from his quarters. It was one of _those things_, he supposed, something that was obvious to everyone and dawned on him only gradually. He'd long ago given up wondering why there were so many of _those things_. It was the same with social functions. Except for him, every human being seemed to be born with the knowledge that those occasions were fun, something to be enjoyed. As for himself, it had taken him more than thirty years and a doggedly obstinate Chief Engineer to feel even remotely at ease at a party. An old girlfriend had once called him an emotional cripple, and perhaps she had been right. Anyone else would have noticed immediately that there were no windows. Noticed as in thought about it, maybe taken objection to it. But he had simply never cared.

Malcolm got up from the bed where he'd been sitting for the last hour, and slowly walked the length of his cabin, turned, and retraced his steps back to the door. He'd never felt this claustrophobic before, as if the walls were closing in on him, crowding him; not even in the brig. And there had been no windows there, either. The thought made him pause, his lips twitching slightly as he imagined a barred porthole. Right. Well, if someone had bothered to install bars in the meantime, he'd have plenty of time to stare through them. Almost a day had passed and he hadn't been taken to the brig yet, but, sooner or later, Malcolm knew his door would open to reveal a team of MACOs ready to take him into custody . Maybe the Captain had decided to allow him a reprieve while they were waiting for news on Trip. Maybe he'd simply forgotten to give the order. Still, it was only a question of time. What Malcolm had said in sickbay had gone beyond insubordination; viewed in a harsh light, his actions could be interpreted as an assault on a fellow officer. Even Starfleet had you clapped in irons for that. And the Captain... he had been furious. No doubt he would want Malcolm off the ship, and drummed out of service after the court martial.

In the face of his career in tatters, a few more days in the brig hardly seemed of any consequence. The first time, the humiliation alone had almost undone him: a MACO bringing him meals, spare clothes, accompanying him to the bathroom and standing inside the door while Malcolm washed. They'd acted on Captain's orders: the prisoner was not to be left unguarded outside the brig. Well aware that orders could be interpreted in a myriad of ways, and, more often than not, left loopholes for some private viciousness, Malcolm had simply stepped out of his uniform and into the shower, careful not to allow any emotion to cross his face. It would have stripped him of his last shreds of dignity, leaving him truly naked, and he had been determined not to give them the satisfaction.

This time, he knew it would be as bad, if not worse. Maybe the MACO would even follow him into the lav, watching as he sat down on the lidless steel toilet and had a shit. Only that Malcolm wouldn't have to feign indifference this time, because he truly didn't care. Trip was dying, his career had gone down the drain in one uncontrolled moment, so why worry about brig time or petty acts of vindictiveness. It wasn't important.

Malcolm came to stand in front of his desk, staring at his own smiling self, captured on Trip's camera almost three years ago, and experienced a sudden, almost painful recollection of the moment. The messhall, decorated with what little Chef's team had managed to rustle up; the ugly alien plant they'd converted into a "Christmas tree"; laughter and tipsy joking around with mistletoe. It had all been so... clean. A strange word, perhaps, in connection with a celebration, but it seemed to fit. The ship and her crew had been clean then, untainted, their intentions honest and heartfelt, and their mission something to be proud of. The smiling Malcolm on the picture wouldn't have dreamt of yelling insults at his Captain, and his greatest worry had been keeping the targeting scanners online. When he wasn't fretting about an invitation to the Captain's mess, that was. Trip had always had a smile and a joke ready, and no one doubted that he was the "Cap'n's" best buddy.

Clean, yes.

Malcolm sat down heavily on his chair, his eyes still on the picture. _Ghost of Christmas Past_, he thought, and almost laughed. The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come might well take the shape of Sergeant Kemper, slapping restraints on him before he was taken to the brig. Not very classical, but fitting, in a way.

A small light blinked on his computer screen, diverting his attention. He had a message. His pulse quickened as he wondered whether it was Phlox, informing him that... No, the doctor would have called.

He pressed a button to accept the message, and a few short lines appeared on the screen.

_Lieutenant Reed,_

_You may consider yourself free from confinement and back on duty. I expect you to attend your next shift, starting 0800. Dr. Phlox has given permission for Commander Tucker to receive visitors._

_Capt. Archer_

Malcolm stared at the screen. This was so unlike anything he had expected that he had to read the message twice before it slowly started to sink in. For whatever reason, he was not going to the brig, not facing a court martial. And Trip... if he was reading this right, then Trip was no longer _critical_.

Malcolm got up from his chair and was on his way to the door when a thought crossed his mind. He smiled, and made a quick detour to his desk before he headed back to the door.

For once, it seemed, he had actually remembered one of _those things_.

* * *

Sickbay was empty when Malcolm entered, and he slowed in his steps. He supposed that Phlox and his techs were in the ICU, and he was reluctant to go in there unannounced, anxious as he was to get news on Trip's condition. For a moment, he lingered next to the curtain section when his problem was suddenly solved by Liz Cutler appearing from the adjoining room.

"Lieutenant!" She smiled, and he felt some of the tension leave his body. Things couldn't be that bad if she was smiling.

"How's the Commander?" he asked.

"Better," she said, and her smile widened. "He's had a rough night, but he's over the worst. If you'd like to see him, Phlox and Ensign Sato are in with him now."

Malcolm nodded. Taking a deep breath, and trusting that the lump in his throat would disappear as quickly as it had come, he followed her to the ICU.

The lights in the small room had been dimmed, and Malcolm blinked after the brightness of main sickbay.

"Lieutenant," Phlox greeted him. He looked tired. Apparently, Trip was not the only one who'd had a rough night. "Please, come in. I've been expecting your visit."

Malcolm walked over to the bed, exchanging a brief glance with Hoshi. "How is he, doctor?"

"Commander Tucker's condition has stabilized," Phlox replied. "It was a close call, but, to borrow a human expression, the Commander seems to have had a security angel."

Malcolm burst out laughing, pure relief flooding through him and making him laugh even harder. Hoshi was chuckling as well.

"You mean guardian angel, doctor," she said.

Phlox smiled. "Ah, of course. I knew it was some kind of angelic entity."

Malcolm's amusement faded as he stepped closer to Trip's bedside. He had expected the injuries to look bad, but this... there was hardly a place on the engineer's body that was not swathed in bandages. Trip's legs were covered with a blanket, but underneath Malcolm could make out the bumpy outlines of stabilizing casts. A deep cut ran across his chest, glistening with steri-glue, and his neck and shoulders had almost disappeared under heavy blue gel packs. Looking closer, Malcolm saw that they covered swollen and blistered burns. Trip's right arm was immobilized in an aircast splint, lying limply at his side like an artificial appendage. His finger, at least, was back where it belonged, a thin red line and a neat row of stitches indicating that it had been separated from its owner.

Compared to the rest of his body, Trip's face seemed relatively unharmed, except for a dark bruise on his left cheekbone. His eyes were closed, his head slightly tilted to one side as if he had merely nodded off, but the impression was ruined by the two small sensors on his forehead and the oxygen tube in his nose.

Phlox had followed Malcolm's eyes. "The helmet saved the Commander's life," he said quietly. "It absorbed most of the impact and protected his neck and cranium. I am fairly certain that neurological damage can be ruled out."

Malcolm raised his head. "_Fairly_ certain?"

"I'll be able to make a reliable assessment once he regains consciousness," Phlox said. "I'm monitoring his neural activity and it appears to be within normal parameters, but he'll have to take some tests before I can tell for sure."

Malcolm looked back at Trip's face. _Don't you dare, Mr. Tucker._

"As I was saying, the possibility of brain damage can be counted out as far as I can tell. Even so, Commander Tucker has a long recovery ahead of himself."

"But he will recover, won't he?" Malcolm knew it was foolish to press an answer, but he needed to hear that Trip was going to be alright.

"I am optimistic that he will." Phlox glanced at the monitor, obviously satisfied with what he saw. "You can stay for another twenty minutes, but please don't extend your visit, hmm? The Commander still needs a lot of rest."

"Can he hear us?" Hoshi asked, her hand coming to rest on Trip's good arm.

"On a subconscious level, he may well be aware of your presence," Phlox said. "If he is, I'm sure that hearing familiar voices will be beneficial to his well-being. I'll be next door if you need anything."

He smiled at the two of them, turning to leave, when Malcolm spoke up.

"Thank you, doctor."

Phlox inclined his head in acceptance. "It's a great relief that the Commander is doing better," he said quietly, but Malcolm caught an odd note about his tone. Watching as the door closed behind the doctor, he wondered if the Captain had been here at all.

"How are you?" Hoshi asked.

He turned, surprised by the question. "Fine, thank you."

"No, you're not." She sat down on a chair next to the bed, a smile crossing her lips as she looked up at him. "I've identified at least eight different kinds of "fine" in Malcolmese, and that particular one translates as "worried and upset"."

He blinked. "Malcolmese?"

"Sure." Now she was grinning. "After four years I'm pretty fluent."

"I trust you're not intending to write a program for the UT."

"I don't think it would work. Only an expert can translate Malcolmese, especially the "I'm fine" connotations."

"And that would be you?"

"Me, Trip, Travis..."

He grinned, shaking his head. "There goes my air of mystery."

"Don't worry, there are a lot of subtle distinctions that we're still working on." She tilted her head slightly to one side, her expression sobering. "You okay, Malcolm?"

He sighed, sitting down on the chair next to hers. "I suppose so. I..." He hesitated, unsure how or if he should continue. One of _those things_ again, it seemed, something that came natural to anyone except him. Trading jokes was one thing, but sharing any of the thoughts that had gone through his mind while he'd sat in his windowless cabin, staring at the pictures on his notice board?

She simply waited, and after a while, he continued quietly. "When Commander Tucker... when Trip was in surgery, I spoke to the Captain in an insulting and insubordinate manner."

If she was surprised, then she didn't let on about it. "Why?"

He wasn't comfortable discussing this part, but he couldn't very well leave it out, now that he had broached the subject. "The Captain made a remark, and I felt he was blaming Trip for the accident. I'm not sure he really was, I might have got him wrong. I... I basically accused him of being unprofessional and lax in his command decisions."

"How did he react?" she asked quietly.

"He relieved me of duty and confined me to quarters." He let out a humorless laugh. "To be frank, I'm surprised he didn't have me taken straight to the brig."

She was silent for a while, her eyes resting on Trip's still face. "I asked Phlox. The Captain hasn't been here to see Trip."

Malcolm said nothing. He wasn't surprised, although he had hoped that Archer would make at least a token appearance. The short message rescinding his confinement had come entirely unexpected, and he still wasn't sure what had prompted the Captain to forgive him so easily_. If_ he had been forgiven. Maybe Archer had decided not to bother disciplining him, and was going to send him home with the next Vulcan freighter they encountered. But in that case he wouldn't have been called back on duty, would he?

He felt a hand on his arm, and raised his head, meeting Hoshi's eyes. She'd gotten to her feet, looking at him thoughtfully. "I'm not sure, but I don't think the Captain's angry. Maybe..." She hesitated. "Maybe you made him realize that something's not right, and hasn't been for a while."

He didn't try to argue her point; they'd all been aware of it, and not only since the accident. "Even so, there's no excuse for my behavior."

She sighed. "There's no excuse for a lot of things, Malcolm. They still happen."

Her bluntness startled him, but she didn't elaborate, her hand tightening briefly on his arm. Then she went over to the bed, stood there for a moment.

"Get better," she said quietly, brushing a few strands of blond hair from Trip's forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Malcolm watched her leave, the door closing behind her and cutting off the light from the main room. He sat there for a while, listening to the soft hum of the monitor, the almost imperceptible sound of Trip breathing. Then he got up from his chair.

"I brought you something," he said, and somehow it didn't even feel strange, talking to the unconscious man. Malcolm opened the zipper on his chest pocket and took something out, moving to the head of the bed.

"Remember those? You took them on Risa, before we left to go to that ill-fated nightclub. Come to think of it, if you'd listened to me we would have stayed where we were. At least there were no shape-shifting aliens there." He took out a few strips of poster tape. "Anyway, I thought you might like them. I'll pin them to the wall over here so you'll be able to look at them when you wake up."

He taped the photos into place, making sure that Trip wouldn't have to twist his head to see them. On the pictures, Porthos was sniffing an alien tree, about to subject it to a "test run"; Archer, Trip and Hoshi were standing in front of the shuttle, smiling; there was one of himself, eyeing a Risan snowcone with an expression of deep suspicion, and one of the sunset photos Trip had been so proud of.

"I'll take them back to my quarters when you're done here," Malcolm said, turning to the bed. "Which I trust will be more sooner than later, you hear me, Mr. Tucker?"

And although he knew he had imagined the twitching of Trip's eyelids, Malcolm was quite sure his words had not fallen on deaf ears.

He smiled. "Sleep well, Trip. I'll see you later."

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for your reviews, and a special thank you to volley, for letting me borrow her popular Ensign Müller :)!

* * *

Chapter 5

"Sir."

Müller nodded a greeting, and Malcolm got up, leaving the station to his second-in-command. He knew that once he was gone, the first thing the tall Ensign would do was lower the chair by a few centimeters so he could sit more comfortably. The young man always waited until his superior had left to adjust the seat. Malcolm had caught him in the act once, when returning to the bridge to get a padd he'd forgotten. In the face of Müller's guilty expression, Malcolm didn't have the heart to tell him that he was well aware of their difference in height, and not particularly bothered by it.

"I'll see you for the morning briefing, Bernhard," he said, and Müller nodded again.

"Yes, sir."

Malcolm had already turned to leave when the man spoke again. "I hope Commander Tucker's doing better, sir."

Malcolm sighed, wishing he had better news to share. In the last forty-eight hours, Trip's condition hadn't changed much. "The doctor's optimistic," he said. "It seems that he's doing as well as can be expected."

"That's good to hear."

Malcolm nodded at his second-in-command and headed for the turbolift, knowing that as soon as the door had closed behind him, Müller would lower the chair and unfold his legs with a sigh. Malcolm smiled at the thought. Trip was convinced that all security personnel, Malcolm included, were socially out to lunch, and maybe he wasn't that far off in his assumption.

The smile disappeared quickly, wiped away by simple weariness. The shift had been a long one. Not because he had been particularly busy; in fact, he had spent most of the time on routine upgrades while T'Pol and her science team processed the incoming data from the probe. The nebula had turned out to harbor no life forms after all, but a methylic gas with unique properties. Personally, Malcolm could see nothing exciting about a gas, but it was obviously quite the scientific discovery. And since it involved no tactical risk for the ship, he was happy to let T'Pol's team poke away at it. Meanwhile, they had enough time to finish repairs in Engineering and get the engine back online.

Malcolm sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped out of the turbolift on E-deck. He was glad to get off the bridge, where Captain Archer was conspicuous by his absence and everyone else pretended not to notice. Even T'Pol seemed to sense the tension, her eyes traveling every so often to the closed door of Archer's ready room. The Captain had come onto the bridge only once or twice, acknowledging Malcolm's presence with a passing nod as if nothing had happened between them. Malcolm didn't mind being ignored; he'd half expected to be called to the ready room first thing to receive a dressing-down and possibly a demotion. It was strange, though. Yesterday, Archer had been furious enough to punch him, and today he seemed to have forgotten about the incident altogether. Malcolm's visions of himself in the brig seemed almost ridiculous after today's shift.

He shrugged off the thought as he entered sickbay. Hoshi was right; agonizing about it wasn't going to change what had happened.

"Lieutenant," Phlox' voice carried over from the small office, and a moment later the doctor appeared in the open door. "You are here to visit Commander Tucker, I assume?"

Malcolm nodded. "How's he doing?"

"His condition's still unchanged."

His disappointment must have shown, for Phlox continued, "That's a positive sign, in fact. Commander Tucker's body has shut down to make repairs, if you'll excuse the technical metaphor."

Malcolm smiled, following him to the ICU. "I'm sure Trip wouldn't mind."

"I'd be more concerned if his neural activity had changed and become erratic. Fortunately, the Commander's still fast asleep. He's even dreaming, judging by his EEG patterns."

The doctor's tone suggested that this was a desirable development, but Malcolm wasn't so sure. Dreaming wasn't necessarily a positive experience, as far as he was concerned. In the Expanse, he'd often avoided sleep altogether, simply to escape the images his overwrought brain would throw at him. Suliban, Xindi... mostly though it was the crew, his friends, dead, limbs torn from their bodies, burned beyond recognition, all because of him. Sometimes they'd get up again and come at him, fingers pointing in silent accusation. Those were the occasions when sleep eluded him for the rest of the night.

He came to stand next to Trip's bedside. The engineer was still pale, his chest rising and falling in a slow, regular rhythm. His eyes weren't moving under the closed lids, so maybe he wasn't dreaming, after all.

_At least that's what I hope_. Oblivion was preferable to the kind of nightmares the Expanse generated.

"Have you been to the messhall, Lieutenant?" Phlox asked, routinely checking the monitor before he turned to Malcolm. "Your shift ended only ten minutes ago."

Malcolm shrugged. "I was planning to go later tonight." In fact, the thought of food hadn't even crossed his mind. It had seemed natural that he would go straight to sickbay after his shift.

"Yes, well, maybe you can join me, hmm?" Phlox smiled at him. "Let's say, in an hour?"

Malcolm recognized a veiled order when he heard one, and besides, the idea of a solid meal wasn't all that unwelcome. The prospect of a very unpleasant encounter with the Captain had prevented him from eating breakfast, and he'd only had a cup of coffee for lunch. Now that Phlox had brought it up, he noticed that he was actually starving.

"I'd like that, Doctor."

"I'll see you then." Phlox' look told him that he'd better be there. The doctor had made it clear long ago that he wouldn't tolerate Malcolm's habit of skipping meals.

"He'd better not bring up the subject of Argelian bloodworms again," Malcolm said quietly to Trip after the door had closed behind Phlox. "I still remember the look on your face when he described their reproductive habits over a plate of macaroni."

He reached out and cautiously grasped Trip's left hand. The man's body looked so frail under all those tubes and bandages that he was almost afraid to touch him. "I'm not sure if you can hear me. Phlox says you might. Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that repairs in Engineering are progressing well. I've sent Tanner and Kemper to assist your crew, and I'll ask Müller to fill in for me on the bridge so I can lend a hand as well."

He paused, deciding not to bring up anything to do with the Captain. Archer still hadn't been down to sickbay, hadn't even mentioned the accident. Not exactly what Trip needed to hear, if there was a chance that he could understand what Malcolm was saying.

"We're still exploring the nebula," he continued, remembering Trip's interest in the phenomenon. "There's no one at home, it appears, but T'Pol's team discovered some sort of gas inside. They want to send in a modified probe to take a sample. Thank goodness we're not sending a manned shuttle again. Given our luck, the gas would be poisonous and mind-altering on top of it."

Malcolm grinned, knowing Trip would be rolling his eyes at that. "Anyway, Hoshi's decided to put the spare time to use and introduce language classes for the crew. She wants all of us to know a few words in some of the more widely known languages, like Vulcan or Andorian. It's a good idea, actually. You can't always count on having a UT handy." He smiled. "She'll recruit you as soon as you're out of here. When Travis was complaining, she told him that he could drop the class as soon as he could tell her the same thing in Klingon. You should have seen the look on his face."

"She's going to have her work cut out for her," a voice said behind him, and Malcolm started badly. He hadn't even heard the door open.

"Captain," he said, cringing inwardly at the surprise in his tone. It couldn't have escaped Archer's notice.

Uncharacteristically, the Captain hesitated. "I didn't think anyone would be here," he said quietly.

For the first time, Malcolm noticed the slump of his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. "If you'd prefer to be alone, sir..."

Archer shook his head, slowly walking over to the bed. His eyes took in every detail, the IV tube, the gel packs, the carefully propped up right arm. It didn't escape Malcolm's attention that they never quite made it up to Trip's face.

The Captain stood there for a long moment, and Malcolm wished he hadn't offered to leave, but had quietly slipped out when there was a chance to do so. He felt like an intruder, staying and watching someone so obviously in pain.

After several minutes, Archer spoke. "He's not doing any better, is he?"

So Archer hadn't spoken to the doctor, either. Malcolm's answer came out more harshly than intended. "As well as can be expected, sir."

Archer nodded. "I didn't think he was going to survive." He almost seemed to be talking to himself, and Malcolm could think of no answer. He'd never seen the Captain like this.

"I think I owe you an apology, Malcolm."

Suddenly Malcolm found himself the focus of Archer's gaze.

"Sir?" he asked, unsure how he was supposed to respond. Archer hadn't sounded as if he was being sarcastic, but Malcolm couldn't tell for sure. The man standing beside the bed was behaving so unlike Jonathan Archer that this might well be the prelude to a dressing-down. If it was, Malcolm would commit one more act of insubordination and ask the Captain to speak to him outside. He didn't want to do this in Trip's presence.

"I shouldn't have lost my temper the way I did." There was nothing sarcastic about Archer's tone; if anything, he sounded sad. "That was... unprofessional."

The word made Malcolm wince. "Sir..."

"No, you were right. Although I never meant to imply that the accident was in any way Commander Tucker's fault."

"Sir..." Malcolm noticed that he was beginning to sound quite stupid, repeating himself like a broken record. He took a deep breath. "Captain, my behavior was inappropriate and disrespectful, and I'm ready to accept any consequences you see fit."

Archer sighed. "I won't lie to you, Malcolm. There was a moment or two when I was angry enough to consider confining you to the brig."

"You would have been more than justified in doing so, sir."

"Would you just-" Archer broke off, dropping his hands in a weary gesture. "Just let me finish here, please. I was angry, but maybe more than I had a right to be."

Malcolm said nothing. This was so far off anything he had expected.

"After you'd left, T'Pol told me more or less the same thing. I was letting personal... issues affect the crew. And I think you're both right."

Archer paused, and Malcolm prayed that the Captain wouldn't expect an answer from him. He let out a silent breath of relief when the man continued.

"It's probably a good thing that you didn't beat around the bush. I don't think I'd have listened to you otherwise."

"Sir..." Malcolm sighed, and opted for simple honesty. "I'm not sure what to say, sir."

Archer smiled, a tired expression. "It's okay, Malcolm. I just wanted you to know, is all."

Malcolm nodded, immensely glad that he wasn't required to comment on the Captain's apology. As if he had ever deserved one.

"That was on Risa, wasn't it?"

He'd noticed the photos. Malcolm's face warmed, but, strangely, the words no longer eluded him as they had before. "Yes, sir. Trip gave me the pictures after our shoreleave, and I thought he might appreciate them."

"I'm sure he will," Archer said quietly. "You had a good time there, didn't you?"

Malcolm's mouth twitched. They hadn't told anyone about the mugging and subsequent hours spent tied up in a basement, knowing they'd never live it down. "It's quite an interesting place, sir."

"It has its attractions," Archer agreed, and something about his tone made Malcolm wonder if the Captain had a few skeletons of his own hidden in the closet. "We should stop there again one day. I didn't really do much sightseeing last time, and I'm sure there's more to the place than bungalows and beaches."

"We went to a naval museum in town," Malcolm offered. "Apparently, our vacation spot was Risa's greatest seafaring nation at some point."

He was doing it, he thought. Smalltalk, with Archer of all people. One of _those things_.

"Sounds good," Archer said. "I'll talk to Admiral Forrest, maybe we can arrange a little detour. Been a while since our last shoreleave."

"I'm sure Trip would like that, sir.".

"Yes," Archer said softly. "He would, wouldn't he?"

His hand came to rest on Trip's uninjured arm; a small gesture, but Malcolm could see that it had cost the Captain. If it were Trip standing here instead of him... Trip had never been afraid to go straight for the heart of the matter. Where angels fear to tread... but Trip was no fool. He knew when to talk to people, and what to say. It was a gift Malcolm had often envied. He could no more walk over to Archer and offer comfort, or whatever it was that the Captain needed, than he could replace Trip in Engineering.

So he did the only thing he could think of, went over and sat down on the chair next to Archer's, keeping the two men silent company. It would have to do for now.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for reviewing!

* * *

Chapter 6

"_Avenger's Arrival_."

"No way."

"_Avenger's Destiny_."

"Travis." Hoshi's expression was one of long-suffering patience. "I absolutely refuse to include anything with the word "avenger" in the title. The same goes for "destiny, sword, last battle and...", she glanced at his padd, "'hovercars'. Titles like these are a foolproof indication that the film is going to be a trashy action flick. No one's going to show up."

Travis glared. "Just so you know, _Avenger's Destiny_ is an award-winning film."

"Best absence of dialogue?" Hoshi raised an eyebrow T'Pol-style, and Malcolm bit his lip to keep his emerging grin out of sight. Travis' fondness for the Avenger trilogy was an endless source of teasing between the two.

Giving her an indignant look, Travis reached across the table for her padd. "What do you have then?"

As he scrolled through her list of titles, it was his turn to lift an eyebrow. "_Call Me But Love_?"

"It's a film adaption of a book," Hoshi said, a bit defensively. "The story takes place in the Victorian era, and..."

"... and it'll put everyone to sleep in the first five minutes," Travis finished for her. He gave Malcolm a "back-me-up-here" look. "Tell her."

Malcolm glanced at both padds held out to him, before returning to his chicken chili. "It's obvious from that picture that the makers of _Avenger's Destiny_ did no weapons research whatsoever. And I daresay that there are no explosions in _Call Me But Love_. So, no and no, I'm afraid."

His two friends exchanged a look expressing clearly that he was being no help.

"Trip makes this look so easy," Hoshi said finally, and dropped her padd with a sigh. "Maybe we should just use one of his old schedules."

Travis nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right. If he finds out we messed with Movie Night..."

He trailed off, leaving it to their imagination just what Trip would do. Hoshi smiled, but there wasn't much conviction in it, and she quickly sobered again.

"Any news?" she asked quietly, her question directed at Malcolm. In the past six days, he had become the primary source for news on Trip, second only to Phlox. Not that there was a lot he could tell them, much as he wished that he could.

"I'm afraid not," he answered. "Same as when we went to see him yesterday. His condition's unchanged."

As it had been for more than a week. Phlox continued to assure Trip's visitors that it was only a matter of time, that Trip's body was healing even as he lay unconscious. Sometimes, Malcolm noticed that Trip's hands would twitch, or that his eyes would move under the closed lids. The doctor said it was a sign that he was dreaming, but to Malcolm those small movements always seemed to signal a cry for help, as if Trip's mind was trying to escape the confines of his immobile body. He wondered if Trip experienced moments of near-lucidity, unable to communicate but awake and aware of his surroundings. Malcolm hoped that it was not so. Even nightmares seemed preferable to the horror of being buried alive in one's own body, incapable of reaching out to the world beyond. He tried to spend as much time in sickbay as he could, talking to Trip, reading to him. Sometimes, Trip seemed to calm down at the sound of voices, or the touch of someone's hand, but Malcolm was well aware that it was a poor substitute for comfort. If Trip was awake in there, they needed to bring him back to the real world.

"Malcolm?" Hoshi asked.

Malcolm blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Maybe..." She hesitated. "We were just wondering if we should cancel Movie Night altogether. We can't seem to get it right, and it's not as if anyone's really in the mood for a night out."

She had a point, Malcolm knew. Engineering, the largest department of the ship, was missing its Chief, who had always been actively involved in anything his team got up to, on duty and off duty. Even though repairs were almost finished, the general morale was in the dumps, and not likely to improve anytime soon. And it wasn't helping that the Captain hardly ever showed his face these days, not on the bridge or anywhere else.

_Like sickbay_. After their strange encounter on the day after the accident, Malcolm had hardly seen the Captain, let alone spoken to him privately. He knew that Archer hadn't been to see Trip, either.

"I think we should have Movie Night," he said. She looked surprised, and he knew that it wasn't what she had expected him to say. In fact, it wasn't what he had expected himself to say. Maybe it wasn't really him talking, he thought, and almost smiled. Maybe he was channelling the spirit of a certain engineer who had better get his lazy arse out of bed, and soon. "People could use a break."

Hoshi gave him a thoughtful look. Then she picked up her padd again. "What do you think of _The Shadows_? Horror, I know," she added with a grin, "but no killer androids, I promise."

Travis leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Now we're getting somewhere."

* * *

"Phlox to Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm was instantly awake, flicked back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. A glance at his bedside display told him that it was 0424. Trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, he got up and went over to the comm.

"Reed here, doctor."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Lieutenant, but I believe you might want to come to sickbay. Commander Tucker is regaining consciousness."

"On my way."

Malcolm hastily pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, fishing for his slippers on the floor. A moment later, he left his dark cabin behind, heading for sickbay.

* * *

"That was quick," Phlox observed when Malcolm arrived in the ICU only two minutes later. "You were sleeping, weren't you, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm sighed. Now of all times he didn't want to deal with the doctor's cautious monitoring of his eating and sleeping habits. "Fast asleep when you called, doctor," he said. "How is Trip?"

Phlox' answer was cut short when the door opened, and T'Pol came in. Unlike Malcolm, she had taken the time to change into her uniform suit, but her normally pristine cap of dark brown hair looked a little ruffled.

"Commander," Phlox said, raising his eyebrows. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that the crew is making a habit out of neglecting their normal sleep cycles."

"Vulcans require less sleep than humans, doctor," T'Pol replied with a hint of impatience. "What is Commander Tucker's condition?"

"He's fine," Phlox smiled. "His neural patterns suggest that he is slowly emerging from unconsciousness. The process may take a while yet," he added as they stepped up next to the bed. Malcolm noticed Trip's face was no longer as slack and expressionless as before. His eyebrows had pulled together fractionally, and his lips moved, as if he were trying to say something, or maybe just trying to make a sound.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked. "Trip, can you hear me?"

His heart picked up a beat when Trip turned his head, as if following the sound of the familiar voice.

"Trip," T'Pol repeated the name, abandoning her formal air for once. "Do not be afraid. Everything is alright."

The very human phrasing sounded odd, coming from her. Malcolm reached out and put his hand over Trip's, felt the engineer's fingers move weakly under his.

"Can you open your eyes for us, Trip?"

"There will be initial disorientation," Phlox said quietly. "Remember that the Commander has been in a comatose state for more than a week."

Malcolm nodded. He'd expected as much.

"Have you notified Captain Archer?" T'Pol asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw a strange expression cross her face, before it disappeared again under the Vulcan veneer of composure.

"I did," Phlox replied. He wasn't looking at her, checking something on the monitor. "The Captain asked me to keep him updated on Commander Tucker's condition."

Malcolm said nothing. Even after everything that had happened, this kind of behavior seemed so unlike Archer. Malcolm wasn't even sure if it was resentment that he felt at learning that Archer had just rolled over and gone back to sleep after Phlox' call. The Captain had become so unpredictable, so... unstable. That was probably the word he was looking for. It did nothing to put his mind at ease.

Trip's eyelids twitched again, and Malcolm pushed all thoughts of Archer to the back of his mind. "Trip?" he asked. "Can you hear me?"

Trip's eyes cracked open slightly, only to close again at what had to be blinding light for him.

"It's okay, Trip," Malcolm said, carefully taking Trip's hand into his own. "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

He waited, and finally, ever so slowly, Trip's fingers curled around his and began to exert light pressure. Trip's strength was nearly non-existent, and it was obvious that even this small movement took almost all he had.

"Good," Malcolm said. "It's good to know you're awake."

"Indeed." T'Pol's voice was unusually soft. "We have been concerned about you, Trip."

Again, her choice of words seemed very un-Vulcan; deliberately so, perhaps. Malcolm wasn't really surprised. Few people realized it, but T'Pol was far from an "ice queen", as some unkind crewmembers had nicknamed her early in their voyage. And she was here, had come to sickbay even though her presence was not required for any logical reason.

Trip's eyes opened a sliver, and this time stayed open. "I..." His voice cracked, trailing off into a weak cough.

"Try not to speak too much, Commander," Phlox said kindly. "Your throat is probably quite sore."

Slowly, Trip turned his head, his eyes searching aimlessly for a moment before they came to rest on Malcolm. "... Mal?"

"That's right," Malcolm said, smiling. "It's good to see you awake, Trip."

Trip blinked slowly. "...'kay?"

"You are going to be okay, as you say," Phlox assured him. "You may feel somewhat groggy at the moment, but it's only temporary. Do not worry yourself, Commander."

Trip's eyebrows drew into a frown. "Not...what I..." He coughed again. "Ever'one... 'kay?"

Malcolm nodded, gently squeezing Trip's hand. "Everyone's okay," he said. "And the engine's back online too."

Trip's face relaxed, and he slowly looked from Phlox to T'Pol. "Doc... T'Pol."

Her name came out more like "Pol". Malcolm looked at Phlox. "His speech..."

"...will improve in time," Phlox answered before Malcolm could finish his question. "Commander Tucker has suffered a severe concussion and is currently quite heavily medicated. It is to be expected that his speech would be rather slurred and fragmented at first."

Trip blinked at him.

"Dr. Phlox is saying that you will be feeling better soon," T'Pol said calmly, and he slowly turned to her.

"S'all... fuzzy."

Malcolm smiled. "I'm sure it is. You're filled to the gills with the doctor's happy juice, Commander."

That earned him a slight frown. "Trip," the engineer said, sounding a little more awake than before. "Name's... Trip. Told ya b'fore."

"So you have," Malcolm said. "How are you feeling, Trip?"

Trip closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. "Like shit."

One of T'Pol's eyebrows twitched. "Understandable," she said, and Malcolm thought that he'd detected a trace of humor in her voice. "It is reassuring, however, that you seem to be feeling well enough to resume your liberal use of colorful metaphors."

Trip squinted at her, obviously trying to make sense of her comment, and Malcolm found himself biting back a grin. Trip's varied and extensive repertory of swears had become legendary aboard Enterprise.

"Do you think you could drink a sip of water for me, Commander?" Phlox had returned from the sink in the corner, holding a drinking cup with a straw. "It would help your dry throat."

Trip nodded, and Phlox gently slipped the straw between the dry lips. Malcolm could see that drinking was a major feat for Trip, and swallowing seemed to hurt him. After a few sips, Phlox removed the straw and set the cup down on Trip's bedside table.

"Let me know if you want any more."

Trip licked his lips. "Thanks, doc." He blinked again, then asked quietly, "The Cap'n?"

Phlox didn't miss a beat. "The Captain was here to see you earlier, but I'm afraid his presence is needed on the bridge right now."

The doctor was lying through his teeth; there was no reason why the Captain should be needed in the command center, and Malcolm knew for a fact that Archer hadn't been in sickbay for several days.

Trip seemed in no state to realize that Phlox wasn't telling the truth. His mouth curved into a weak smile. "'kay."

Malcolm exchanged a glance with T'Pol before he turned back to Trip. "We'll stay with you for a while. If that's alright?."

Another smile crossed Trip's tired face. "Thanks. That'd... be great."

"It is our pleasure," T'Pol said quietly. "Doctor?"

"Certainly," Phlox replied, and for once didn't put up an argument because they would be missing sleep. "You may stay as long you wish."

Trip's eyes drifted closed again, and it took him all of two minutes to fall asleep. Malcolm listened as the other man's breathing evened out, watched as his head tilted slightly to one side. Despite his pallor, despite the gel packs and bandages, Trip looked so much better, and he'd been awake and lucid. A little out of it, perhaps, but very recognizably Trip Tucker. Malcolm smiled. Right now, not much else was important.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you for your reviews! The second part of this chapter contains spoilers for "The Crossing" (the episode with the "wisssps"). For those who haven't seen it, the crew was overtaken by noncorporeal alien beings but eventually recaptured the ship (well, duh ;) ).

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 7

"I don't know, Mal." Trip looked unhappily at the object in Malcolm's hand. "You shouldn't hafta..."

Malcolm sighed. "Trip, I've done this every morning for the last sixteen years. Believe me, I've got quite a lot of practice."

"I could leave it like it is," Trip suggested, without much hope. As an answer, Malcolm merely held up the portable mirror he'd brought along. At the sight of his pale, thin, and rather scruffy face, Trip grimaced.

"I guess I see your point."

"Not everyone was born to have a beard," Malcolm attempted to cheer him up, while unpacking the shaving kit he'd brought. Secretly, he congratulated himself on how well this was going. Trip had been awake for three days, and in all that time had steadfastly refused to let any of the medical staff near him with a razor. He couldn't very well shave himself with his right arm in an airsplint, and the stubble grew with each passing day. It wasn't a look that suited him, and as Phlox was beginning to gripe about bedside hygiene and uncooperative patients, Malcolm had decided to take matters in his own hands.

He slid his chair closer to the biobed for better access, and picked up the razor.

"Would you like to hold the mirror?" he offered, knowing that in Trip's place he'd feel more comfortable if he could see what was going on.

Trip nodded. "If ya cut me, I'll put a reprimand in your file, just so y'know."

"You do that, and I'll leave you with a mustache, Commander." Malcolm grinned, well aware that there was no worrying about cuts with the electric razors issued by ship's supplies.

Trip shuddered. "I think I'll pass, thanks. Might look good on you, though."

Malcolm imagined himself with a mustache, and decided that it was an experience he could do without. "I don't think so. Tip your head back a little," he instructed, and Trip did as he was told, watching in the mirror as Malcolm carefully began to shave the left side of his face. Once the cheek was fuzz-free, Malcolm gently cupped the stubbly chin and tilted Trip's face towards him so he would be able to reach the other side.

"You're good at this," Trip observed. "Maybe you should apply for an additional post as ship's barber."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid my experience is somewhat limited. Shaving's one thing, but I doubt I'd do a very good perm."

Trip laughed. "I'll keep it in mind."

Malcolm proceeded to shave Trip's right cheek, and made sure the engineer's chin and neck were free from stubble, before he laid the razor aside. He leaned back in his chair and inspected his handiwork, checking for any patches of fuzz he might have overlooked.

"Better," he said finally, and Trip grinned.

"Glad to know I pass muster."

In fact, Trip did look better, and it wasn't only the freshly-shaved face. Phlox had started to cut down on his pain meds, and the engineer's eyes were no longer as dull and glazed as they had been after he had woken from his week-long unconsciousness. The gel packs were gone, too, replaced with light bandages to protect the tender skin beneath. Trip frequently brought a hand up to touch the dressings, and Malcolm assumed that the healing burns were causing him some discomfort, if not pain. He didn't know for sure, as Trip hadn't uttered a word of complaint so far. He tired easily, and sometimes his smile seemed strained, as if it had been plastered onto his face only to hide a grimace. But except for the no-shaving policy, the engineer went out of his way to be good company, both to the medical staff and his visitors.

"Thanks for..." Trip waved a hand at his face.

"That's alright." Malcolm tucked the razor into its pouch, and leaned back again, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "How are you feeling, Trip?"

Trip paused. "I'm okay. Why?"

Malcolm tilted his head. "I think I should get Hoshi down here."

"What d'you mean?"

"She told me she'd identified eight different kinds of "fine" in Malcolmese. Maybe she could help me with the various meanings of "okay" in Tuckerite."

This elicited a grin. "Tuckerite? Now that sounds like a disease more'n a language, don't you think?"

Malcolm went along with the bantering tone. "Maybe. For the most part, you can recognize the victims by their garish shirts and their uncontrolled urge to play the harmonica at the most inopportune moments."

Trip tried to glare, but it soon dissolved into a grin. "Hey now! There's nothin' wrong with my shirts, and the harmonica's a very complex instrument, as you oughta know, Mr. Core Curriculum."

"I'm afraid the standard British education doesn't include regular harmonica lessons. Although I daresay I would have liked them better than the violin lessons I was subjected to. Or rather, my poor teacher was subjected to."

"That bad?" Trip asked.

Malcolm nodded ruefully. "I'm afraid so. Like "a bag full o' cats", as you would say."

He had missed this, he realized; talking to the one person aboard who never reminded him of _those things_, never made him feel like a social misfit.

"So," he said. "How _are_ you feeling, Trip? And don't say okay."

Trip shrugged, glancing away. "Phlox says my legs are gettin' better," he said quietly. "He's givin' me some sorta enzyme to stimulate the bone growth. He's using it on my arm, too."

"Is the splint going to come off soon?" Malcolm nodded at the arm held fast by the stabilizing cushions of the cast. Trip's right hand was also immobilized in a light splint, to protect the reattached finger, Malcolm assumed. There was, of course, a perfectly medical reason for all the confining casts and bandages, but they effectively prevented Trip from moving three of his four limbs. It had to be driving him crazy.

"The doc said it's gotta stay on for another two days or so," Trip said. "I've gotta start physical therapy on my finger soon, so it won't lose its mobility." He paused. "He said it was you who found it."

Malcolm nodded. "I saw it on the floor in Engineering after they'd taken you to sickbay."

"Thank you." Trip sighed. "I guess I'm enough of a sight without any bits and pieces missin'."

"It's not that bad." Malcolm winced inwardly at his choice of words, but Trip only gave him a tired grin.

"I know, I shouldn't be complainin'. Could've been my head, after all."

Malcolm didn't smile at the weak joke. "You don't have to do that, Trip," he said quietly.

Trip looked at him, and didn't even try to pretend that he had no idea what Malcolm was referring to. "I guess I'm not very entertainin' company these days."

The statement would have sounded confrontational, if not for Trip's weary tone.

Malcolm shook his head. "That's not what I'm talking about, Trip. And you don't have to... keep up appearances for my sake. I don't come here because I expect you to entertain me."

"It's jus'..." Trip wiped his good hand over his face. "You know, just before the inductor blew, I was thinking... I was such a bastard, back in the Expanse. To T'Pol, to you..." He sighed. "I just don't want that kinda thing to happen again. I hit a rough spot, and took it out on everyone else, 'specially the people who were tryin' to help me. I guess it's no surprise..." He broke off, looking away. Finally, he continued softly, "I wouldn't have put up with myself, so I guess I can't blame him."

Malcolm said nothing. Archer still hadn't been to sickbay, and Phlox was running out of excuses why the Captain hadn't once found the time to visit his Chief Engineer. If Trip had ever believed any of them, Malcolm did not know.

"The Captain's very busy these days," he began, but broke off when Trip shook his head.

"It's okay, Malcolm. I know he's not. T'Pol's told me all about the nebula her team's exploring, and that things are goin' pretty slow for the rest of you. She said Travis and Hoshi are plannin' an additional Movie Night this week," he added, brightening a little. "What are they showing?"

It was a rather clumsy change of subject, but Malcolm let it slide. It wasn't as if he could offer an explanation for Archer's behavior.

He began to tell Trip about Movie Night, smiling at the engineer's groan when he listed the movies to which Travis and Hoshi were planning to treat their audience.

He stayed until Trip had fallen asleep, then stood up and quietly left sickbay.

* * *

Malcolm hesitated, his hand curling into a fist over the doorbell. It was one of the rooms on Enterprise he had never entered. That was, he had entered it, but not in his right mind... actually, he hadn't been in his own mind at all, at the time. He'd read the full report after the incidents with the "wisps", horrified and furious when he learned that the non-corporeal being had used his body and voice to harass female crewmembers. An excruciatingly embarrassing apology to Crewman Santos and T'Pol later, he had at least been able to reassure himself that the bastard in his body hadn't done anything worse. Neither T'Pol nor Santos blamed him, and T'Pol had pointed out that it was "illogical" for him to feel guilty over an offence he had not committed. She was right, too. Yet he couldn't help feeling uncomfortable at the idea of going into her quarters, like the presumptuous alien had done.

Stupid, of course. The incident had happened more than two years ago, and it hadn't, to all intents and purposes, been Malcolm Reed. And T'Pol, of all people, was well aware of that.

Malcolm hit the doorbell.

"Come in," her voice answered from inside, and he pressed the door release, wondering if he would remember what her cabin looked like.

He didn't, he realized as he stepped into the room. The small, embroidered cushions on the floor, the ornament on the wall, the candles, it was all new to him. For some reason, he was relieved.

T'Pol was sitting at her desk, clad in a long flowing robe; her meditation attire, Malcolm assumed. The heavy fabric rustled softly as she got up.

"Is there something I can do for you, Lieutenant?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Commander..."

"You did not," she said calmly. "How may I be of assistance?"

Malcolm paused. He'd had gone over this before he had come here, had prepared an opening statement, but it suddenly seemed the wrong thing to say. In fact, everything he could say would sound wrong... presumptuous. There was that word again.

She motioned towards the floor cushions. "Perhaps you would like to take a seat."

He complied, awkwardly folding his legs under him. She sat on the pillow opposite to his. In her Vulcan robe, she looked more alien than he had seen her in a long time.

"You haven't come here to discuss a professional matter," she stated.

He shook his head. "No... not really. I was hoping to speak to you privately... off the record."

She inclined her head. "Please continue."

Her eyes briefly dropped to his hands, and he realized that he'd started plucking at the cushion he was sitting on. Quickly, he let go and folded his arms in front of his chest.

"Sorry."

"It is of no consequence," she said, and there was a touch of humor in her voice. "Those are _an'kars_, intended for daily use in meditation. They are very sturdy."

"You meditate every day?" he asked cautiously.

"Every day," she confirmed. "I believe you are not unfamiliar with the concept of meditation?"

He frowned. "I'm not sure..."

"I have observed some of your martial arts lessons," she said. "Several of the preparation exercises appeared similar to Vulcan meditation techniques."

"You mean tai chi chuan," he said, pleased. "Some consider the mental preparedness the most important part."

"Vulcan martial arts are based on that principle as well."

He nodded. "I know. I was impressed with the _ke-tar'ya_ moves you showed to the deuterium miners."

She raised an eyebrow. "You have studied _ke-tar'ya_?"

"I tried... I'm afraid I never got past the basics, though. And I'm not even sure I got those right."

"The technique is difficult to master," she said. "Even more so without an instructor. If you wish, I could guide you through the first level of exercises."

Malcolm smiled. "I'd like that. It's very kind of you to offer."

"Then we have "a date", as Commander Tucker would say," she said serenely.

He was dumbstruck, until he saw the slight twitch of her eyebrow; the Vulcan equivalent of a smile. She must have sensed his unease earlier on, and in her own way had done her best to dispel it. Sometimes, Malcolm wondered if he knew this woman at all.

"I believe there was something you wanted to discuss with me," she stated, and he nodded.

Suddenly, he felt quite free to speak.

"Actually, I've come here to talk to you about Captain Archer." He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. "He doesn't seem like himself. He's hardly ever on the bridge anymore, or attending department meetings. And he seems... distracted."

Archer wasn't "distracted", but it was all Malcolm could bring himself to say. _Confused. Apathetic. Lonely_. He wasn't quite sure where that last one had come from. Maybe it had been the look on Archer's face, that one time he'd come to sickbay and stood mutely beside Trip's bed.

"I have also noticed changes about him," T'Pol said quietly. "His reaction to the emergency in Engineering was uncharacteristic."

"Uncharacteristic" meaning he simply hadn't been there. Malcolm shifted on his cushion, remembering his outburst in sickbay afterwards. Maybe Archer wasn't the only one who had behaved uncharacteristically during the emergency.

"He hasn't been to see Trip at all."

"I know." T'Pol paused. "I find it difficult to understand his reasons for neglecting to do so."

Malcolm caught the implied question in her statement, and almost laughed. Of all the people she could ask, he was the one least suited to give her any profound insights on human behavior.

He shook his head. "I noticed that he was... that there was a problem between him and Commander Tucker, but I'm afraid I don't really understand what is going on, either."

T'Pol regarded him calmly. "In your judgment, is the Captain still able to fulfill his duties as a commanding officer?"

He hesitated. It was her duty as First Officer to ask him this, he knew that. Whether he wanted to answer her question was another story.

"Yes," he said finally. "I believe so. But I think that the situation needs to be addressed."

It helped to retreat behind formalities. He was talking about a man who had saved his arse more than once, who'd allowed him to stay aboard and even keep his post after the disaster with Harris. A formal statement sounded less like betrayal to Malcolm's ears.

"I agree," T'Pol said. "I am glad you came to speak to me, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded. "What are you going to do?"

The idea of a delegation of senior officers walking into the Captain's ready room, intending to relieve him of duty was awful, and he prayed that it wouldn't come to that.

"I will consult Dr. Phlox," she said. "He seems to have noticed the Captain's... difficulties as well. After that, I will speak to Captain Archer."

Malcolm nodded again. "Thank you," he offered, and she seemed to know that he wasn't only referring to her willingness to listen.

One of her eyebrows twitched. "I shall be looking forward to our practice sessions."

He smiled, getting to his feet. "Me too. Good night, Commander."

"Lieutenant."

There were times when Malcolm suspected that the universe had a strange sense of humor as far as he was concerned. Stepping into the turbolift a few minutes later, he found his theory confirmed.

"Good evening, Crewman."

Santos nodded at him. "Going to B-deck, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You're welcome, sir," the young woman said, a hint of humor in her voice.

Malcolm smiled.

TBC…

Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

I love getting your reviews, thank you!

* * *

Chapter 8

He jerked awake, not sure at first what had disturbed his sleep. Something hard had been pressing into his cheek... a padd? Why would there be a padd in his bed?

But he wasn't in his bed, was he. He was sitting at his desk, or rather, sprawled across it, and the hiss of the door had woken him.

"Captain?"

After a moment of disorientation, he remembered that someone had entered the room. T'Pol. She was standing just inside the door, watching him in that detached way of hers.

"Yes," he said, running a hand over the back of his head. His neck ached. "There something I can do for you?"

Not what he should be saying; what she expected him to say. He should be offering an explanation, or at least apologize to her for being asleep when she came in. But, as so often of late, he couldn't be bothered, and he had no explanation anyway. He didn't know why he'd fallen asleep again. The only reason he could offer was self-explanatory: he'd been tired. So damn tired he couldn't seem to stay awake anymore, no matter what time of the day.

She wasn't saying anything, only looking at him. Of all people who could have come in, she was the least unwelcome, yet he found himself wishing that she would just leave again. So he could... yes, so he could go back to sleep. It felt so good to close his eyes and let himself fall into darkness. It was all he really wanted these days.

"Commander?" he asked, knowing that he sounded impatient, not caring. The old T'Pol would have launched into a speech at once, lecturing him about the importance of getting sufficient rest. He could have listened, nodded, and sent her on her way. And gone back to sleep. He so wished he could go back to sleep.

"Captain, are you feeling all right?"

_Not from her._

"Yes, of course," he replied repressively. "Was there something you wanted, T'Pol?"

She came closer, stood next to his chair. He could see that the blank computer screen didn't escape her attention. Today, he hadn't even pretended to be working.

"If I may speak to you, Jonathan."

It wasn't often that she used his first name, and certainly not in an "official" setting like his ready room. He couldn't very well deny her now, even though he really, really wanted to. He didn't want to talk, and he didn't want to think. He wanted to sleep.

He sighed and lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug, motioning at the seating corner next to the window. "Please."

If he was lucky, she'd simply say what she had to say and leave again.

She sat down, and it registered with him how gracefully she moved, like a cat rather than a person. She could make a simple gesture like sitting down look like a supple dance move.

"What did you want to talk about?" he asked. He wanted to get it over with.

"I would like to speak about you," she said, as calmly as if she had announced she wanted to discuss Reed's latest security protocol.

"Me," he repeated.

"Yes," she said simply. "I am concerned about you."

"Concerned," he said. He was beginning to sound stupid, repeating her words like that, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of any intelligent answers to give. He didn't want to answer, only wanted her to leave. Or not. He didn't know. He couldn't think with his brain dulled by that overwhelming urge to lie down and allow himself to drift into oblivion.

"Isn't concern an emotion?" he asked. Stupid, he knew, stupid and clumsy, but still better than having to give an actual answer.

"As Ensign Sato would point out, that depends on the connotations."

He stared at her. Had that been a joke? Ask Hoshi to translate any alien word, and it was a sure fire bet you'd get something about "connotations" thrown back at you. But T'Pol didn't joke. Did she?

"I woke you when I came in," she stated.

He didn't try to deny it. "I didn't get much sleep last night..."

"You often seem to be exhausted these days." She paused. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm not sick." That, at least, was true.

"Have you been to see Dr. Phlox?" she asked.

He felt a spark of anger. She knew very well that he hadn't entered sickbay in almost a week. Maybe they weren't aware of it, but he'd noticed the looks they were giving him whenever he showed his face on the bridge. "Heartless bastard", those looks said. As if it were any of their business.

"Of course not," he snapped. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? "There's no reason why I should see him."

Heartless bastard scores another point, he thought. He didn't care. Maybe if he was rude enough, it would make her go away.

"I have spoken to Dr. Phlox and Lieutenant Reed," she said calmly. "They are both worried about the changes they have observed in your behavior."

"Yeah, well, they can go to hell." He hadn't meant to say that; it had just slipped out. Again.

She didn't react in any way, merely kept looking at him as if he were a lab specimen under a microscope slide. It infuriated him, and he was surprised at how liberating the sudden anger felt to him. As if something had risen to the surface, where it could rant and rave instead of eating away at his insides, that slow, painful corrosion he could only escape when he was asleep.

He got to his feet. "Why are you here, T'Pol?"

She opened her mouth, but he was quicker.

"Don't give me that crap about being concerned. You're here because Phlox put you up to it. He knows I wouldn't answer to his shrink routine, so he sent you." He turned away from her, staring out the window. "Or maybe that's not it," he added quietly. "You're here because you're feeling sorry for him, aren't you?"

He didn't explain who he meant, and she didn't ask.

"I am not here because I am "feeling sorry" for Commander Tucker."

He didn't turn around. "I thought Vulcans didn't lie."

She got up, came over and stood next to him. Their transparent reflections before the stars looked odd, almost as if their real selves were out there, staring at the two pale, lifeless versions inside this room.

"We are not incapable of deception," she said softly.

"I know."

That made an impact, he could see that. After a moment of silence, she spoke again.

"I do not have many friends, Jonathan. You may find it hard to believe, but even for a Vulcan, I am a rather reclusive person. Most of my relations and acquaintances on Vulcan do not condone my serving on a Starfleet vessel, and as I have told you before, I am not skilled at fraternizing."

He stared at her. He had never heard her talk like this.

"I apologize if I have made you feel uncomfortable." She turned to go.

"T'Pol."

She looked at him, and he realized that he didn't want her to leave. Often, when she'd stepped through this door into the corridor, she'd worn that haughty look, indifferent, contemptuous of his irrationality. And more often than not, he'd been livid, but that was okay. She was a Vulcan, after all. But he didn't want her to go out there looking like this. Defenses down. Vulnerable. That wasn't how it was supposed to be.

"Look... I'm sorry. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm okay. Really. I'll... I'll try to get more sleep nights. This won't happen again."

She said nothing.

"What else do you want me to say?" he asked, shrugging helplessly. "I can't just..." He trailed off. He'd never meant to say that much.

"You can't just what?"

He lowered his eyes, staring at his desk where the untidy stacks of padds had served him as a pillow. I can't just _not _be tired. _Not_ hide in here when I can barely bear my own company. _Not_ snap at Trip when he's making me angry for a reason I don't really understand myself.

"I've had enough," he said quietly.

She simply looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

"It's just... they keep taking and taking, and it's got to stop at some point, doesn't it? All those PR events Gardner wants me to attend, and I think I'm going crazy... those fucking _people_... "Captain, how did your crew react when you first met the Xindi"... "what was your first thought after you'd destroyed the weapon"... "what was the closest bonding moment between you and Degra"... can you believe they actually asked me that?" He laughed. "I told them they could take their pick, maybe when we first kissed, or when I wanted to break his nose for not just blasting the Reptilians out of existence when there was my entire world at stake... Gardner gave me hell for that one, of course."

She inclined her head. "I was told that there was an... unfortunate incident at the press conference on Jupiter Station."

He paused. Had that been humor?

"All I want is for them to leave me alone." It came out defensively. His remark about Degra had been in bad taste, and he'd known it even without the embarrassed silence from the journalists. Of course, none of them had confronted him. Jonathan Archer, hero extraordinaire, was not to be contradicted.

"Jonathan," T'Pol said. "I want you to promise me something."

He looked at her.

"I want you to talk to Dr. Phlox."

"I'm not going crazy, T'Pol." It came out far too quickly, as if he had to convince himself as much as her. But he wasn't going crazy, was he? He was just... tired.

She regarded him calmly. "Will you speak to the doctor?"

He sighed. "If you insist."

"I do," was all she said.

He sat at his desk for a long time after she'd left, staring out the window. Then, he pushed the padds aside, laid his head down on the smooth tabletop, and went back to sleep.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

I love getting your reviews, thank you!

* * *

Chapter 9

"Try lifting your arm as far as you can, Commander."

"I tried, doc. I can't move it more'n I already did."

"Try," Phlox repeated, and Trip knew that it was pointless to tell the doctor that he _had_ been trying for the last ten minutes.

Gritting his teeth, he slowly raised his arm again, his hand trembling with the effort. Pain pricked at the inside of his skin, piercing the recently mended bone. It was a new experience to actually feel his bone inside his arm. He'd always known it was there, of course, but it had never before become a source of discomfort, or, in fact, any sensation at all.

"A little more." Phlox placed his hand on Trip's forearm. "Try pressing against my hand."

"Doc..."

"Try, Commander."

"I'm gonna put that on my tombstone," Trip muttered, and winced as a sharp stab reminded him why he hated physical therapy so much.

"You are?" Phlox sounded pleased.

"No," Trip managed, drawing a hissing breath through his teeth as the pain intensified. "It's jus' an expression."

"I understand," Phlox nodded, and mercifully loosened his grip. "You may lower your arm now, Commander."

Relieved, Trip allowed his arm to drop onto the mattress, which he immediately regretted. "Ow!"

"I told you to be careful, hmm?" Phlox pursed his lips, frowning down at the display of his hand scanner. "Your injured finger is still quite sensitive to concussions of any kind. But you'll be pleased to know that your arm is healing well. You should soon be able to shave yourself again." Peering over the scanner, he gave Trip one of his uncanny ear-to-ear grins. "Unless you prefer having Mr. Reed do it."

Trip massaged his arm, grimacing at the pins and needles. "What about my legs, doc? I'm not gonna have to... stay in this bed for the next two weeks, am I?"

"Well, you definitely won't be climbing ladders in Engineering any time soon, but your fractures appear to be mending well. Another day, two perhaps, and you may try getting up for a while."

Trip frowned. "You mean, I'll be able to walk?"

"Ah, perhaps I should rephrase that." Phlox went to a storage compartment in the corner of the ICU and opened its sliding door. When Trip saw the bulky object the doctor lifted out, he groaned.

"Doc, I don't think..."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "It's either that, or waiting until your legs have healed sufficiently for you to try walking."

Trip sighed. He should have known he'd end up in a wheelchair at some point; it seemed hardly avoidable with a useless pair of shattered limbs attached to his lower body. Yet for some reason he'd always pictured himself getting up and walking out of here, using a crutch perhaps, but walking upright, on his own two feet.

"Is there a problem, Commander?" Phlox leaned the folded wheelchair against the wall, and came over to Trip's bed.

Trip shook his head. "Naw. It's just... I'm not sure I wanna be carted around the ship like a..."

"Like a person with two broken legs?"

Trip said nothing. It was not how he had intended to finish his sentence.

"It's your decision," the doctor shrugged. "If you feel your pride would be compromised if you used a transportation aid..."

"It's not that." It came out snappier than intended. "I'll use the damn wheelchair."

Phlox' smile made Trip wonder how often the doctor had been through this with other "mobility-impaired" patients. "I'm sure Mr. Reed would approve of your decision."

"Doc..."

But Phlox had already returned to his handscanner. "It is remarkable, the degree to which she speeds up the cell division, Here," he held the device so that Trip got a good look of the display. What he saw there reminded him of a layer cake with pink cherry filling and white icing. "She", he knew, referred to the osmotic eel that was cozily snuggled against his collarbone.

"It's a sectional view of your skin," Phlox explained. "The burns have damaged the reticular dermis, and the eel is releasing a secretion that interacts with the-"

"I'm sure she's doin' a great job," Trip interrupted. The hunger stirred by the thought of a cherry cake had rapidly disappeared again.

"Indeed," Phlox replied happily, oblivious as always to his patient's discomfort at having an alien crustacean latched to some body part or other. "She's one of the more insatiable members of her species. Her protein synthesis-"

Trip breathed a sigh of relief when the door slid open, cutting the doctor's lecture short. He'd expected Malcolm, who came by every day after his shift. It wasn't the Armory Officer, however, nor was it T'Pol with a new stack of engineering reports. The visitor remained standing in the entrance, one hand on the door frame.

"Captain," Phlox said finally. "Please, come in."

"Doctor." Archer cleared his throat, taking a step into the room. The bulkhead closed behind him, and he threw a quick, uneasy look over his shoulder, as if his escape route had been cut off. Trip said nothing. This, he had not expected.

"Well," Phlox said, gathering up his handscanner, "I shall be next door if you need me. Captain. Commander..."

After the doctor had left, Jon was still lingering near the door, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here, and Trip was tempted to tell him to just go.

"How are you feeling?" Jon asked eventually, when the silence had begun to stretch almost painfully.

The ball was in his court now, Trip knew. His chance to get in some payback, spread the misery a bit. Jon would accept it, he could see that; would take everything Trip threw in his face.

He felt tired all of a sudden. "Why don't you sit down, Cap'n."  
Jon hesitated. "I..."

Trip indicated the chair next to his bed. "C'mon."

After a moment, Jon slowly came over and took a seat. "Thanks."

Trip wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at their stilted, pointless exchange. They'd never been like this. And Jon... he looked terrible, worse even than in the last few days before they'd destroyed the Xindi weapon. His gray-streaked hair was unwashed. Dark crescents stood out under his eyes, and the lines on his face were more prominent than ever.

"You look like shit, Jon," Trip said bluntly. He wasn't going to waste any more time with pleasantries.

A weak grin appeared on Jon's face. "I've had better days. Weeks, I guess."

"Yeah," Trip said, and Jon's grin faded.

"Trip, I'm sorry I haven't been to sickbay."

"Why haven't you?" No pleasantries, and no bullshit either. He'd had enough of both.

Jon said nothing for a long time. Then: "You almost died, Trip."

Trip eyed him, the bowed head, the white-knuckled hands entwined on his lap. Jon had lost weight, he noticed. Five or six pounds, maybe more.

"I thought you were going to die," Jon continued, and finally raised his head. "After your surgery, when Malcolm raked my ass over the coals..."

"Malcolm did what?"

"He didn't tell you?" Jon asked, and Trip shook his head.

"Naw, he didn't say a thing."

Jon sighed. "I've never seen him so angry. He thought I was blaming you for the accident, and told me I'd better "address my own issues of incompetence". Unprofessional and inappropriate also came up somewhere in between."

Trip tried to imagine it. "Malcolm said that to you? Literally?"

"Yes," Jon nodded slowly. "And he was right."

Jon wasn't fishing for reassurance; didn't expect him to disagree or take sides against Malcolm. Trip waited for the Captain to continue.

"T'Pol told me the same, but it took me a while to realize that... that things weren't okay." Jon straightened on his chair. "For what it's worth, Trip, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't come to see you, and I'm sorry for the way I've been treating you. I... I'm not sure what else to say."

That makes two of us, Trip thought. He'd expected some sort of speech, an explanation maybe, but not this. Not an apology that sounded as if Jon had been practising in front of the mirror.

"You don't have to say anything."

It wasn't an offer of conciliation, and Jon didn't take it as one. His posture slumped, shoulders sagging, as if he'd been expecting this.

"Maybe I'd better go," he said quietly, standing up.

"Or maybe you'd better not," Trip snapped. "Maybe you'd better park your ass on that chair and shut the hell up."

Jon did as he'd been told, sitting back down. He avoided Trip's eyes, and maybe that was a good thing. Trip felt as if a floodgate had opened inside him, releasing all the anger and frustration he'd built up over the past days, confined to this room with little else to think about. Not fair, perhaps; it wasn't Jon's fault that he was stuck in here and couldn't even go to the bathroom without Phlox' assistance, or that he would be sitting in a damn wheelchair on his first day up. But fair or not, the words kept coming.

"You're so damn self-righteous, you know that? You always have a perfectly good explanation ready when you fuck up, and no one's gonna say anything, 'cause you somehow make things right in the end, isn't that how it works? But God help them if someone else makes a mistake."

Jon said nothing. He was pale, but seemed determined to hear him out. Trip so wished he could have slapped him, if he'd only been able to lift his damn arm.

"You're above everything, aren't you? And if you decide someone's not worth your time, you drop them like a bag of garbage, don't you? Or throw them in the brig. For some valid reason or other, a'course."

Malcolm had never really talked about his days in confinement, but Trip had heard enough rumors to get a pretty clear picture. And all that had been going on while he was hiding on _Columbia_, too much of a coward to face the mess he'd left behind.

"Do you know that the MACOs treated Malcolm like shit, after you'd decided that he didn't deserve to be confined to his quarters? I bet you knew. Served him right for havin' a mind of his own, didn't it?"

The rational part of him knew that what Malcolm had done – had felt compelled to do – went beyond "having a mind of his own". Malcolm would have told him so himself, pointing out that the Captain had only followed the rule book. But this wasn't about rules and regulations, and his rational mind could go to hell.

Jon shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"So you've said."

Jon was silent for a while, staring down at his hands. Then, quietly, he said: "I'm going to resign my commission."

Trip stared at him. "_What_?"

"You said it yourself, Trip, and you won't hear any arguments from me. I'm no longer fit to be Captain, or in any position of command. I've... I've made a mess of things. I can't keep doing this. I'm sorry."

Trip shook his head. "What the hell are you talkin' about? What's happening to you, Jon?"

Abruptly, Jon got up and turned around, facing away from the bed. His hands were clenched to fists, his breathing a harsh rasp. When Trip finally realized what was going on, he felt like he'd been punched in the guts. Jon didn't cry. He never had. He wasn't macho or anything, but tears just weren't on the agenda. And if he did, then no one, including his best buddy... former best buddy... would ever know about it.

"Jon?" he asked cautiously.

The older man wiped his face before he turned around, and his red, watery eyes dispersed any doubts Trip might still have had. Slowly, Jon sat back down, letting out a shaky breath.

"Sorry. I never meant..."

"Stop sayin' that, okay?" Trip eyed him for a moment. "Why can't you tell me what's goin' on?"

Jon sighed. "I talked to Phlox. After T'Pol found me asleep at my desk during shift, and not for the first time either. I can't believe I let things go this far."

"It's depression, isn't it?" Trip asked quietly, not surprised when Jon nodded.

"That's what Phlox said."

"You don't think he's right?"

A tired shrug. "I don't know what to believe, Trip. I'd noticed that I couldn't seem to stay awake, that I was having a hard time keeping myself in check. But whatever it is, it's no excuse for the way I've been treating you, or the crew."

Trip shook his head. "You can't just pack up and go, Jon."

Jon refused to meet his eyes. "Trip, Phlox has relieved me of duty. T'Pol's in command. I hope Starfleet decides to keep her. Enterprise would be best off under her, but-"

"Enterprise would be best off under you ," Trip interrupted, hardly noticing that he'd raised his voice. "T'Pol's a great commander, and I'm sure she'll have her own ship one day, but _this_ ship needs you, not her."

"I'm relieved of duty, Trip." His tone was flat, as if none of this had anything to do with him. "Phlox is starting me on some sort of meds... don't know what they're called..."

"Then go and find out," Trip said sharply. "Ask Phlox if they'll help you get back on track. Ask him how long it's gonna take. You gotta get a grip on things, Jon. This isn't you."

Something flickered in Jon's eyes at that, and Trip was glad to see it. Anything was better than that dull lifelessness.

"That's the point, isn't it? I'm not myself, and I can't just "get a grip on things". Don't you think I've tried? All it accomplished was endangering Enterprise. She needs a Captain, not someone who can't even get out of bed in a crisis."

Trip nodded. "Then make sure you're up to the job. It's gonna take a while, granted, and I know that kinda thing doesn't go away over night. But you can't just leave."

Sighing, Jon shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Trip was silent for a while. "You haven't answered my question."

"What do you mean?"

Trip waited until Jon had looked up before he continued. "You didn't tell me why you never came to sickbay. Or what the fuck I'd done to make you hate me."

Jon flinched. "I don't hate you, Trip."

"Well, you've been doin' a pretty good imitation of it," Trip said, his anger welling up again. "Ever since the Expanse, you've been actin' as if you can't stand being in the same room with me. I just wanna know why."

"I..." Jon closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Trip."

"Yeah. You know, say that one more time and I'm gonna kick your ass. And yes, I know I've got two broken legs and can't - fuckin' - move!" He'd leaned forward as he yelled the last three words, and suddenly became aware of a sharp stinging just below his collarbone. Trip glanced down at himself and recoiled, except that he couldn't really back away from the awful sight. He had completely forgotten about the osmotic eel. The small animal had curled itself into a perfectly round little ball, its skin breaking out in bright orange dots, and worst of all, it seemed to be trying to dig deeper into Trip's skin, seeking protection from the noisy danger that had declared itself.

"What the- ow! What's happening? Fuck!"

"Don't move!" Jon ordered, and his firm tone penetrated Trip's growing panic, making him hold still long enough so that Jon could get a grip on the eel. Another stab of pain, and the eel was wriggling in Jon's hand, trying to curl in on itself.

"I'd better-" Jon began, but was interrupted when the door opened and Phlox came in.

"Is there a problem, Captain, Commander?"

As an answer, Jon held out the orange-spotted eel.

"Oh dear," Phlox said, taking the small animal from the Captain. He cupped it in his palm, gently stroking its bumpy skin with his index finger, until one by one, the orange marks began to disappear.

"There, there," the doctor's fingers traced each of the eel's tentacles, which unfurled under his touch. "Did something frighten you, young lady?"

The eel seemed disinclined to answer, and Phlox directed his questioning look at Trip. "Commander?"

Trip blushed. "Yeah, well, I guess I kinda... raised my voice."

"I thought I'd heard something," Phlox replied mildly. He grasped the eel between two fingers and returned it to its former spot under Trip's collarbone. The animal stayed perfectly still for a second, then slowly spread its tentacles, seeking a hold on Trip's skin.

"Try not to shout or make any sudden movements," the doctor advised. "She's rather easily scared."

"I noticed," Trip muttered, still embarrassed. Critters with more than four legs – or tentacles – fell under the category of Bugs, and Trip didn't like Bugs. He never had.

"If you'll excuse me," Phlox said. Trip didn't miss the short, taxing glance at Jon and him, and wondered if the doctor had set the whole thing up. Maybe he had. The Denobulan was a lot sneakier than most people thought.

The door closed behind the doctor, and Trip turned back to Jon, who was wiping his hand on his uniform.

"Slimy little sucker, isn't it," Trip said, a grin emerging on his face. All of it, the angry eel, Jon's ill-concealed expression of disgust, his own panic, seemed strangely funny all of a sudden. "Maybe it's tryin' to tell me something."

"Well, it's definitely telling you not to shout while it's sucking at your neck," Jon said.

Trip winced. "Don't put it that way."

"What way?"

"Suckin' at my neck. Sounds as if it's tryin' to give me a hickey."

"Maybe she is."

Their eyes met, and they both grinned. Trip knew that neither of them was going to say it out loud; that wasn't what they did, and it wouldn't have felt natural. But something had changed just now, and it wasn't only that they shared a joke for the first time in ages.

"It wasn't anything you did," Jon said after a while.

"What d'you mean?"

"The reason why I was being such a bastard to you. It was just that... you always reminded me of the way things had been. You were still getting along with the crew, having movie night... I couldn't do any of that. I couldn't go back to who I was before."

"You think it was that easy for me? That I had a good cry over Lizzy's death and then got on with life? Jon..."

The Captain sighed. "I know it wasn't like that. We all went through hell, and I know you had it worse than most..."

Trip shook his head. "I'm not the only one who lost someone close. Crewman Barry's parents were killed, Ensign Hank's brother..." He trailed off. Lizzy wasn't one of many, he'd realized that long ago; she was his sister. Yet at the same time, she _was _one of many, and listing the crew's losses reminded him painfully of how he'd shut everyone out after her death, how he'd tried to push away his grief, and had ended up pushing away his friends.

"I know," Jon said quietly. "But I didn't care, you see? All I could think of... was that goddamn weapon."

Trip looked at him. "It was you who got us through the whole mess. Of course you cared."

"No!" For the first time, Jon raised his voice. "I didn't care, Trip. That's it, I just didn't care, period. I wanted the weapon destroyed, but I kept telling myself that the mission was all I could think about. I couldn't... think about the people who'd died, or myself, or even the crew. I couldn't handle it. But you... you could. You still cared. And I guess I was just... jealous."

"Jealous," Trip repeated, shaking his head. Jealous of what?

"And now..." Jon briefly closed his eyes. "I keep looking at myself and wondering what the hell I'm doing here. I can't do my job anymore, and... that's really all I've got, isn't it?"

"You've got friends," Trip said quietly.

Jon gave him a startled look. "Trip..."

"You think I was the perfect officer and gentleman, back in the Expanse? Malcolm and T'Pol could tell you a different story, but they won't, 'cause they're too damn forgiving for their own good. I guess we've all our share of forgiving to do."

He didn't miss the change in Jon's expression when he mentioned T'Pol... a brief flicker of hurt, of a kind Trip was only too familiar with. He understood, or thought he did.

"An' for the record, Jon, that... thing between me and T'Pol, it didn't work out. I was draggin' her down, tryin' to turn her into something she wasn't..."

"She was the one who started taking the Trellium-D," Jon quietly pointed out.

Trip nodded. "That was part of it. She wasn't really herself, you know? We were both at a low point, and jumped into something without really knowing what we were lettin' ourselves in for. I'm not what she needs, and... T'Pol's a great person, but I don't think we would've been, you know, happy together."

There was more to it, things he was going to tell Jon at some point, but not now. This was neither the time nor the place.

Jon nodded slowly. "Thanks for telling me, Trip." He paused. "Mind if I stay for a while?"

"Make yourself at home," Trip said immediately. "Phlox hasn't admitted you though, has he?"

The question was only halfway out when he wished he could take it back. Jon merely shook his head in response.

"No, I'm fine to stay in my quarters, but... I figured I could use the company."

The anxious look was back, and Trip smiled.

"Me too," was all he said.

TBC...

Final chapter soon to come up! Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you for taking the time to read and review! It was very interesting to get your different points of view on the after-Expanse situation and the friendship between Trip and Jon. Hope you guys like my conclusion :)!

Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 10

And to think he'd been looking forward to this. His propped-up legs felt as if an elephant had stepped on them, his arm was throbbing uncomfortably in its sling across his chest, and the t-shirt was chafing on his healing burns with every move. Trip was seriously beginning to doubt that this had been a good idea.

"How do you feel?" Malcolm asked, and Trip sighed inwardly. After almost three weeks, the prospect of seeing _anything_ other than the interior of sickbay was quite appealing. If only he'd been able to leave on his own two feet, rather than in this torture rack disguised as a wheelchair.

He smiled at Malcolm, trying to sound upbeat as he answered, "Fine, thanks."

Malcolm seemed convinced, or maybe he accepted "fine" as the correct answer to any sort of question. "Great," he said, tucking another blanket around Trip's shoulders.

"Malcolm," Trip groaned. It was the third blanket in as many minutes, and he was beginning to feel like in his own personal sauna. Why would someone in a wheelchair need blankets, anyway? It wasn't as if he was sick. "Stop fussin', okay? I'm not an invalid."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows at him.

"Okay, maybe I am," Trip conceded. "But I'm gonna start sweatin' like a pig under all those blankets."

"Well, we wouldn't want that." Relenting, Malcolm began to peel off the outer layer of blankets. He didn't seem offended; in fact, Trip noted sourly that there was a smile playing around the Lieutenant's mouth. "I'm not taking anyone to Movie Night just to have them collapse with heat exhaustion."

He was definitely laughing, the little son of a bitch. "Yeah, make fun of the cripple, why don't ya." Trip tried to scowl, but he knew that the expression lacked conviction. From where Malcolm was standing, it probably _was _pretty funny – the Chief Engineer all wrapped up and whining like a recalcitrant two-year-old who'd been strapped into a stroller. Now all he needed was for Malcolm to plug a pacifier into his mouth and tell him to be a good boy.

"What?" Malcolm asked.

Trip shook his head. He wasn't going to share his vision of Malcolm Reed trying to appease a cranky toddler. "I was just thinking... I guess I owe you a thank you."

Malcolm frowned. "What do you..."

"It was you who put up the photos, wasn't it?" Trip didn't really need to ask. He hadn't given copies of the pictures to anyone but Malcolm, and no one but his friend knew that these were some of his favorite snapshots.

"You noticed." Malcolm looked both embarrassed and pleased.

"Course I did." Trip touched the other man's arm with his good hand, wanting him to know that he wasn't teasing. "Thank you, for... you know. The photos and all."

There was no answer, but Trip had seen the little half-smile often enough to know that he'd said the right thing.

Both of them glanced up when Hoshi poked her head into the ICU.

"Hey Hosh," Trip smiled. "You look great."

She did, wearing her hair down, her slim frame accentuated by a figure-hugging blue dress.

"Thank you." She waggled her eyebrows at them. "Hot date tonight."

"Who's the lucky guy?" Trip asked.

"Not guy," she grinned. "Guys."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "Now I want details."

Hoshi leaned forward conspiratorially. "But don't tell anyone, okay? I'm taking Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed to Movie Night."

"Really?" Malcolm asked, eyes wide. "Both of them? You don't say."

"I know. Lucky me, huh?"

Trip shook his head. "There she goes, takin' those two schmucks on a date when there's so many great guys around."

"It's a bloody shame," Malcolm added mournfully, at which point Trip burst out laughing, and Hoshi joined in. Malcolm grinned.

They left sickbay, Malcolm pushing the wheelchair, and Trip mentally prepared himself for the startled glances and double-takes from passing crewmembers. He knew he looked a mess. It was going to take another seven days until he could start physiotherapy on his legs, another two weeks until he'd be back on his feet, and then only with the aid of crutches. The burns had left deep scars, and he was going to need several skin grafts to remove them. His reattached finger would require long and painful therapy sessions, and even so, there was a sixty percent chance that it would always be a little stiff. And according to Phlox, it could have been so much worse.

"Good to see you out of sickbay, Chief," Hess smiled at him.

Trip nodded. "Yeah, I was gettin' a little stir crazy."

That was understating things by a long way, and Hess seemed to know it. "We miss you down in Engineering, sir."

"I'll try to be back as soon as I can."

In a month or two, he amended silently. Then again, maybe Phlox would allow him back on part-time duties. The crutches stopped him from climbing the platform, but most of the systems were accessible from the ground level, anyway. And he didn't need healthy legs to do paperwork, did he? He smiled at Hess.

"Don't get too used to bein' in charge."

She grinned and clapped his good shoulder before she left to meet Rostov, who was waiting for her at the messhall door.

Trip watched as Hoshi pushed the door panel, his good hand closing around the armrest as Malcolm steered the wheelchair inside. The room was filled with people, chatting and thronging in front of the drinks dispenser. The lights had been dimmed, and on the screen in the back, Trip could make out a still from the movie. The noise level hit him like a shock. After the quiet, secluded ICU, the sudden change was almost too much.

"Commander!" – "Good to see you, sir!"

It was unsettling in a way, people towering over him as if he were a child. Trip nodded and smiled, secretly relieved when Malcolm headed away from the crowd and over to the seats. There was Travis sitting in the last row, waving when he saw them.

"About time," he grinned. "I'm saving some of the best seats here."

Hoshi slipped into the chair next to him. "Some of the best seats?"

"Sure," Travis nodded. "We're in the last row, aren't we?"

"The last row's only best if it's elevated," Hoshi said, and the helmsman rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure there was a thank-you somewhere in there."

Trip only listened with half an ear. Jon was sitting in the second row, and next to him, T'Pol of all people. He hadn't seen much of the Captain since their talk in sickbay, but then, no one had. Apart from the senior staff, the crew only knew that the Captain was on medical leave, period. Malcolm had overheard a few rumors, but none of them seemed to come close to the truth, and the bridge crew made sure to keep it that way. It would make things easier, once Jon resumed command of Enterprise.

"If he resumes command," Phlox had amended, but Trip refused to accept the doctor's reservation as an option. There was no one better for the job, even if Jon didn't seem to think so at the moment. Maybe all he needed was someone to tell him.

_And maybe that someone's not me_. Trip watched T'Pol, sitting straight and tall in the middle of her talking, laughing shipmates. That expression on Jon's face, when Trip had told him that there was nothing going on between the two of them, that it hadn't worked out...

_Maybe that's what he needs. _A calming influence, someone who didn't need leadership or guidance. Someone to lean on.

And that was okay, Trip realized. Even if things never returned to the way they had been. Too much had happened for that, and, cliché though it was, people changed. Friendships changed. But it was okay.

"Can you see all right?"

Malcolm's voice intruded into his thoughts, and Trip turned to the man sitting next to him. A bowl of popcorn was held out to him, and he grabbed a handful, savoring the full, salty taste.

"Thanks," he said, referring both to the question and the popcorn. And maybe even to more, none of which he was going to mention, because Malcolm wasn't into mushy stuff, and come to think of it, neither was he. Well, almost never. Ingrid Bergman didn't count.

He looked back at the screen, and found that Jon had half-turned, a surprised smile lighting his face when he saw Trip. He looked better than he had in sickbay. The bags under his eyes were gone, and his posture was less slumped, less indifferent. Trip raised a hand, receiving a grin in return before Jon turned around again.

Malcolm held out the popcorn again, and Trip grabbed himself another handful, watching the screen flicker to life. He'd been looking forward to this.

* * *

The End

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